


it's our scars that give us character

by RecoveringTheSatellites



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Private Detective!Emma, Slow Burn, Witness!Killian, with a happy ending - i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2019-12-26 16:38:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18286145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RecoveringTheSatellites/pseuds/RecoveringTheSatellites
Summary: There are three rules in surveillance.One: Do not get involved.Two: Do not get involved.And three: Whatever you do, do not get involved.Emma has never broken them.Not once.Until now.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ...here we go again. (The second fic can't be as hard to write as the first one, can it?)  
> Story title shamelessly stolen from Hilltop Hoods' "The Underground".

 

 

Her name is Regina Mills, and that’s how it starts. With a name.

And a mandate.

And an order disguised as a compliment.

 

“I need to hire you for a surveillance job and background check. The time frame is narrow, the project is urgent. You come highly recommended. Supposedly you are thorough and can work with a tight deadline.” 

Translation:  _I have an impossible task for you, and it’s due yesterday. If you fail, word will get around and it will be extremely unfavorable._

 

Emma looks up and grins at the trifecta. Threat, flattery and implication. This Regina woman is used to getting exactly what she wants.

But so is Emma.

“Who recommended me?”

Regina pauses for a fraction of a second. Emma notices and files it away for later. 

“The person I was originally going to hire.” Regina replies. “Neal Cassidy.”

Emma exhales but keeps her face neutral. One of these days Neal will stop shooting surplus work her way in order to get back into her good graces. But today is not that day.

 

Emma leans back in her chair, examines Regina for a moment. Her clothes are severe, no frills, no nonsense, but elegant in their clean lines. They are at the very least tailored, but more likely bespoke. Her shoes are polished high heels, and expensive. Her bag is utilitarian. And  _very_ expensive. She is clipped and professional. The type of person to waste neither kindness nor words.

She is the very best kind of client if the task in question is in any way feasible. The kind with plenty of disposable funds and no patience for bargaining. The kind who pays the asking price no matter what it is.

She is also the very worst kind of client if the job ends up being impossible. The kind who will not accept anything less than perfection. Who will want her requirements filled to the letter.

Emma sighs.

No wonder Neal pulled his head out of this particular sling.

 

Then she nods at Regina and points to the seat in front of her desk. Regina sits down as if the chair owed her money. Emma pulls up a form and starts asking for particulars.

“Name of subject?”

“Killian Jones.”

“Wayward lover or spouse?”

Regina looks as if someone had offered her cockroach. For lunch. “Neither, of course.”

Emma raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “98% of all surveillance jobs requested by women concern a significant other.”

Regina raises a formidable eyebrow of her own. “I would thank you to not make assumptions about me, no matter what 98% percent of the population do or don’t do.”

Emma files away this reply for future reference as well.

Most of this interview is not about getting the details of a case. It is mainly to size up a prospective client.

And as sleek and polished as Regina is, she has already revealed quite a bit to Emma. The composed ones always do.

 

“So what is it, then?” Emma continues. “Why am I following him, and what activity would you like me to catch him in red-handed?”

“None, actually. I just want to know how he spends his days. Whom he talks to. Who his friends are. All possible relations.” Regina puts more innuendo into the word 'relations' than the word can possibly hold.

“So you want the dirt,” Emma sums up. “Why?”

“That is confidential.” Regina's lips slam shut, become a straight line.

“Not for me,” Emma replies. “I need to know what I'm getting myself into.” She leans back and looks Regina straight in the eye. It becomes a staring contest of sorts, until Regina releases a long-suffering sigh.

“Fine, Miss Swan,” she finally relents. “He's a potential witness in my case.”

Of course she's a lawyer.

“It's extremely unlikely that he will be called,” she goes on, “but I like to have all my ducks in a row. I don't want a dirty little secret to come out halfway through deposition and invalidate my case.”

“You want me to vet a potential witness? I would assume you have people for that.”

“We do,” Regina nods. “Qualified people. But we are still bound by certain-- regulations. You are not.” The implication is clear: _We are already doing everything that's legal. I would like you to play outside those lines._

“The case is routine,” Regina goes on, “but it is delicate. Very delicate. Hence my caution.”

Emma nods. “OK,” she says. “How fast do you want it done?”

“I have to have your full report next Friday by end of business.”

_Eight days_ , Emma thinks. That's not a lot of time, but she has worked with less.

“I get 300 a day, plus expenses,” she says. “Weekends are double. And you will need the weekend.”

Regina doesn't bat an eyelash. Instead she pulls out a pristinely white card. “Drop off your report at this address next Friday no later than 5 pm. Put it on this.” Regina hands Emma a solid-looking USB stick. “It's BitLocked. The encryption key is on the back of this card.” She flips the card over to reveal a handwritten series of numbers and letters. “Do _not_ email it, under any circumstances. Is that clear?”

Emma nods.

“Include your invoice. Attach copies of all your receipts.”

With that she gets up, gives Emma a clipped nod, and leaves the premises without saying good-bye.

Emma bites her lip.

This is going to suck.

 

 

 

Killian Jones has a minuscule digital footprint.

No social media presence at all.

No registered car, no metro pass, no cell phone. He rents an apartment on the cheap side of town and pays his rent, his landline and his utilities on time and what looks like in cash. There is a check cashing place a few blocks from his building, which he most likely uses for any and all fiscal transactions. He does not have a bank account.

His phone records show exactly two numbers. One from a company named Jīn Import/Export. A quick dip into their personnel files finds that they are located at the harbor and have one Killian Jones on the payroll. His job title is not listed, but his department is logistics. It could mean planning, but it could also be grunt work. Stocking, loading, that kind of thing. It stands to reason that these phone calls were work-related and pertain to shift changes or the like.

The other phone number is to a local pizza place.

 

By the time Emma finishes compiling these records she has already broken several state and federal laws. Killian lives in a grey zone – not actually off the grid, but not really on it, either. He leaves a very small trail in this world which he barely inhabits.

She sighs, rolls her shoulders and gets herself a cup of coffee.

And then starts to dig into his personal life.

 

He’s Irish. He was a Lieutenant in Her Majesty’s Navy until an accident left him permanently disabled. There are no particulars, the records are sealed. She can find no news items covering this story. She can also not find any information on Killian after leaving the Navy, not until he pops back onto the grid stateside a few years later. The first red flag goes up: He holds an H-4 visa. H-4's are given to family members of H visa holders. Yet Emma has found no information whatsoever on any next of kin.

Curious. And highly suggestive.

His employer, from the start, is Jīn Import/Export. Emma tries to find out more about the company, but beyond the official website, which features some beautifully worded marketing blurbs that say absolutely nothing, and the less official employee roster, which she has already acquired, the trail quickly runs cold amidst an intricate network of shell companies. That's another red flag, and it is a big one.

 

Emma gets up and looks at her watch. Almost 10 pm. She has been hunched at her desk for more than six hours. She groans and stretches and packs up her laptop. There is no way she is snooping her way into UK records. That’s a job for other people.

 

 

 

 

 

Three days later, Emma has observed merely that Killian's life is routine and uneventful. And so far, Emma has not found evidence of any physical disability, permanent or otherwise. He leaves his apartment shortly before 6 am and takes a series of buses down to the docks. Emma cannot follow him onto the premises, because it requires ID, but she does determine that the warehouse he enters belongs to Jīn Import/Export. He leaves around 5 pm and walks back by way of the park. He gets coffee at the same cart each afternoon, but does not linger to make conversation. His interactions with the barista are impersonal and perfunctory. Then he sits on whatever unoccupied bench he can find, as far removed from any concentration of people as he can. He does nothing but sit and drink his coffee. He pays no attention to his surroundings. He looks like the definition of 'lost in thought'. He stays for anywhere between thirty minutes and an hour, and then walks the rest of the way home; stopping only to pick up food at various takeout places. Chinese the first night, Indian the second, pizza the third.

Once he goes up to his apartment he does not leave again. The lights go out at roughly 10 pm.

Emma's gut has been giving off faint warning signals for days. There is something off about the whole situation; the discrepancy between this sedate, isolated life she is watching and the urgency of Regina's assignment. 

Because the story so far is that Killian doesn't talk to anyone, and has no relations at all.

 

The evening of the fourth day finds Emma staring out of the window of the diner across from Killian’s apartment building, when a folder slaps down on the table in front of her. Will Scarlet slides into the opposite booth and grins the grin of the carefree and wicked.

“That man’s a bloody ghost, lass.” He takes a sip of her coffee. “Ugh – how can you drink this absolute _swill_?”

He motions to the waitress and orders a beer, then turns back to Emma.

“You won’t believe the innards I had to crawl through to get this. It’s going to cost you.”

Emma raises her eyebrows, but Will looks more serious than he usually does when he tries to haggle his fee north. Apparently her request really was a piece of work.

“Fine,” she says, and reaches for the folder.

Will snatches it back.

“Double my fee or you get nothing,” he says. “And I mean nothing.”

Emma is too tired to argue. “Done,” she says. “Now hand it over.”

 

What she finds in the folder is tragedy and heartbreak, wrapped inside the dispassionate wording of official documents.

All next of kin are deceased.

It appears that the mother, Lily, died when Killian was but a boy; the death certificate reads heart-failure.

This causes the father, Brennan, to abandon both of his sons to the system; the seven-year-old Killian, as well as his older brother Liam, 11. There is spotty information on the whereabouts or occupation of the father after his wife's death, but there are a staggering number of arrests. Most of them drunken disorderlies and public nuisances, with a steadily growing number of assault and battery charges as time goes on. It paints a distinct picture of a man caught in a downward spiral. Brennan Jones dies in hospital from a brain hemorrhage sustained after blunt-force trauma to the head. No specifics are given, no cemetery listed.

Liam joins the Navy the day he ages out of the system, Killian follows the moment he comes of age four years later. They rise to the ranks of Lieutenant Commander and Lieutenant respectively, but are never posted together. Killian is injured in what is simply listed as a “maritime accident”. He loses his left hand.

 

Emma goes back over her observations of the past four days. There was nothing to indicate a missing appendage. Both hands were in his jacket pockets unless holding coffee or food, which he did with his right. All transactions were done with his right hand as well – with cash, pulled from his right jeans pocket. She cannot recall a single instance in which his left hand had come out of its pocket. Or been used.

Emma shakes her head. She should have picked up on that.

 

After the incident, Killian is officially discharged from the Navy. There is very little on him for this interim; he seems to bounce around the UK with no permanent address. His pension and disability checks go to a PO Box and are cashed all over the country. The sins of the father seem to come back to haunt him; there is a steady influx of minor arrests, most of them alcohol-related. None of them involve violence or bodily harm, though. Will has nothing on Killian stateside which Emma has not already found herself, save for one detail: Killian still receives his pension and disability checks from England, now wired through Western Union. It seems he really does not like banks. Or records of any kind.

Red flags are popping up all over the place.

Liam, on the other hand, leaves the Navy abruptly and without apparent cause only a few months after making Lieutenant Commander, and disappears completely from the grid. There is absolutely no information on him until he turns up as a John Doe in a downtown morgue right here in the city, identified posthumously by his brother. The cause of death: multiple gunshot wounds.

Emma shudders. The red flags become an alarm klaxon. Whatever this is, it isn't good.

 

She looks up at Will. “No specifics on the accident? Nothing on the time between the Navy discharge and coming here? Nothing on the brother after he enters the US?”

Will shrugs. “You're lucky you got this much, lass. It was a bloody chore to dig up and worth every penny you owe me. And I am not about to go hack sealed Royal Navy or US customs records, not even for you. Not without a lot more money coming my way, and a  _lot_ more time and equipment.”

Emma raises an eyebrow, but Will meets her gaze. He definitely means it. This is the end of their transaction.

“Fine,” she concedes. “You'll have your fee by the end of the week. Just pay for your beer, I don't want it to show up on my expense report.”

 

 

 

The following afternoon Killian's routine is broken up for the first time. Emma watches as a man in a navy winter coat deliberately strides up to Killian and sits down next to him. As soon as she can see the man’s face, Emma's breath stops. She knows him.

His name is Walsh, and he is very,  _very_ bad news. 

Walsh is the right-hand man and enforcer of a known organized crime boss called Mr. Gold.

Oh, this is so much worse than she'd thought.

 

Emma sees Killian's whole body stiffen like a board the moment Walsh sits down next to him, but he doesn't look up. Walsh leans back, studying the tree tops and starts to talk. Emma can't hear what he is saying, but Killian looks like a tightly coiled spring by the time he finishes. He does not say a word. Finally Walsh leans forward and pats Killian on the shoulder as he gets up. Killian recoils. But he does not get up; he stays on the bench, still staring into his coffee. He doesn't move for a full ten minutes after Walsh has left.

Then he gets up slowly, as if he had aged fifty years in the process, and slugglishly starts making his way home. He does not stop for food this time.

When he gets to his apartment, the lights do not turn on.

 

Emma goes back to the diner to watch Killian's building, just as she has been doing for the past four nights, but this time she watches the entrance much more closely. Just to make sure big, burly men armed with baseball bats aren't the next item on his visitor's list.

Because the big picture is slowly coming into focus, and it is ugly.

 

And then the penny drops.

This is not 'a routine case'. Regina is not an ordinary lawyer.

This is a RICO case. Scratch that, this is _the_ RICO case.

Regina is a federal prosecutor.

And Killian is not 'a potential witness'.

He's not State's Evidence, that much is clear. He'd be locked up in a safe house somewhere, with promises of witness protection.

He is a corroborating witness.

On a hunch, Emma pulls out her phone and enters Jīn into Google translator.

It’s Mandarin. For ‘gold’.

Yahtzee.

 

Emma orders another cup of coffee. She has to think.

For the last few days she has been using the time Killian spends at the docks to go home and get a few hours of sleep, but it has not made staying up all night to stake out his building any easier.

Half of her expense report will be cups of coffee from this diner.

Around 4:30 am she has reached a decision. She borrows paper and pen from the waitress, and spends quite some time on writing just a few lines. When Killian leaves his apartment an hour later, she trails him to the bus stop, and then bumps into him.

She apologizes profusely.

And does not get on the bus.

Instead she goes home and hopes for the best.

 

 

 

 

That evening Emma waits in the last booth of a hotel bar.

The reason she chose a middle-class chain hotel bar is that by their nature hotel bars are anonymous: there are no regulars, and the chance of running into anyone familiar are slim to none. The bartenders are usually courteous, but disinterested. And hotel bars as a rule are sparsely populated.

The reason she chose this particular bar is its layout: from her vantage point she can see the whole room, while remaining relatively secluded.

Emma waits for almost two hours and has nearly given up when Killian walks in, looking around, uncertain. She gets up and waves him over and he approaches cautiously, warily. He is holding a piece of paper.

She is rather proud of the slip she'd performed that morning. Since she'd had to aim for his right hand she'd been forced to use her left, and if there is one thing Emma is not, it is left-handed.

She motions for him to sit and he does, rather looking like he is en route to his own execution.

 

“You wanted to meet me?”

Emma takes a moment to study him. His body is tense, his shoulders pulled up. His face looks tired and worn; older than his 33 years. There are pronounced shadows under his eyes, lines on his face, and the beginnings of grey in his scruff. Underlying his tension and watchful suspicion, a bone-deep exhaustion colors his movements. His eyes, when he looks at her, are both cautious and weary. And very, very blue.

His eyebrows furrow, and Emma realizes that she has not answered his question.

“Sorry,” she says, “yes, I did want to meet you. I'm so glad you decided to come.”

Up until this very moment Emma had had a choice: screw up her life by telling him the truth, or screw up his by not doing so. She's been teetering on the very edge of this knife for hours now, ever since she'd slipped him the note. If he had decided not to show up she would have accepted it as fate; gone home, compiled her report, and delivered it as promised. Even in the brief time it took him to walk over to her and sit down, she had still considered not going through with it. But now that he is here, sitting across from her, she realizes there is only one choice she can make: Talk to him. Consequences be damned.

 

“Who are you, then?” He looks at her with a mixture of expectance and apprehension.

“My name is Emma Swan,” she says, “and I'm a bounty hunter. Well, bail bonds person, actually. And I sometimes double as a private detective. A week ago I was given your case.”

Killian's eyebrows rise. “My case?”

“Does the name Regina Mills mean anything to you?”

It is entirely obvious from Killian's reaction that the name means a great deal to him. Emma can sniff out a lie better than a bloodhound hemoglobin, but there is no need for her skill here. Killian has no poker face at all.

“I see that it does,” she says gently. “I'm so sorry, this must be really weird for you. Strange women slipping you covert notes, and clandestine meetings, and all this cloak and dagger stuff.” She smiles at him. Hopes he sees that it's genuine. “Can I at least buy you a beer?”

Killian studies her for a long moment and Emma tries to keep her expression open and pleasant. Two things which don't exactly come natural to her. In the end he nods, and while his eyes stay wary, the suspicion has left them, and the tension in his shoulders has eased a little.

“Good,” Emma says, and flags the waitress. Killian defies all Irish stereotypes by ordering a cup of coffee. Emma orders a Guinness and gets a raised eyebrow and the tiniest uptick of the corner of his mouth.

“Look, I think it's probably best if you just let me say my piece. All of it.” _I might not go through with it otherwise._ “And then you can ask me anything you want. OK?”

Killian nods again. Gods, he looks tired.

 

Emma takes a deep breath. “Regina Mills came to me a few days ago. She wanted some surveillance and a background check on you. Not just a routine background check mind you, the whole nine yards. All the dirt I could possibly dig up and then some.”

Killian's eyebrows quirk up, but he remains quiet. The waitress comes over with their drinks and Emma waits until she is well out of earshot again, before she continues.

“I didn't find that much, but the little I did find sent up a bunch of red flags.” She takes a long sip of her beer. “I've also been tailing you for a few days.”

“I thought you looked familiar.” Killian mumbles.

“Sorry?”

“When you slipped me the paper this morning. I thought I'd seen you before. I just couldn't remember where.”

“Huh,” Emma smirks. “I guess I have to work on my shadowing technique.”

Killian takes a sip of his coffee and motions for her to go on.

“Right from the beginning I had the feeling that something was not right, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Your daily life was so incredibly routine and unremarkable. It made no sense to put you under surveillance. Your history on the other hand was irregular and fragmented and full of question marks.” She shrugs. “Sorry.”

“It is what it is.” He sounds utterly resigned. “Go on.”

“And then yesterday afternoon, Walsh entered the picture. And I started to see my assignment in a whole new light.” She takes another long sip. For courage. “Here's what I think. I think Regina is a federal prosecutor, and she is going after organized crime. Specifically one Mr. Gold. Who is set to go on trial in, what – ten days?”

Killian's eyes widen, and Emma knows she's on the right track. He really has no poker face whatsoever.

“I also think that she has tapped you to testify at what will most likely become the RICO case of the decade. At least. Now, I don't know what you know, or what you're being asked to corroborate. I do know that you work at a company that is most likely owned by Mr. Gold's organization. And I know that people like Walsh don't pay people like you a visit to talk about the weather. I think Walsh came to threaten you. And I also think Regina hasn't told you a lick about what you're getting yourself into if you do this. Namely that after you testify, your life will be over.”

Emma leans forward and puts her hand on Killian's. “Literally.”

 

Killian goes rigid at her touch, and Emma snatches her hand back. “Sorry,” she says. “Sorry! I didn't mean to do that.”

He relaxes a fraction, and almost smiles.

“It's alright,” he says. “I'm just not used to---” He doesn't finish.

Emma waits for a moment and then goes on. “From everything I have observed over the past few days, you seem to either not know that your testimony will have grave consequences for you, or not care. And just in case it is the former, I thought someone had to tell you. Unless of course you are set to join WITSEC right afterwards, in which case I have just violated my code of ethics and my NDA for nothing.”

Killian smiles. For the first time since Emma started watching him, he smiles. It's like the sun coming up over the horizon. He looks like a completely different person.

“You use too many initials,” he says. “I don't understand half of what you're saying. What's a WITSEC? And what on earth is an NDA?”

“You don't watch a lot of movies, do you.”

“Don't own a TV.”

Emma bursts out a surprised laugh. “WITSEC is the Federal Witness Protection Program. Since you had to ask, I'm assuming you're not on a fast track to a new Federal identity?”

Killian shakes his head.

“And an NDA is a Non Disclosure Agreement. It's what I sign when I take on a job.”

Killian frowns. “And your personal code of ethics?”

“There are three rules in my line of work.” Emma holds up her hand, counts up her fingers. “One: Do not get involved. Two: Do not get involved. And three: Whatever you do, do not get involved.”

Killian grins, and it's another revelation. “Like Fight Club.”

“Only much, _much_ more serious.” She grins. “So you do watch movies.”

“It was a book first, you know. A really good book.”

“I might have to read it.”

Killian is quiet for a moment, and his grin morphs into a thoughtful expression. “I can see how talking to a surveillance subject might constitute a breach of, well – all of the above. What will happen to you when people find out you violated your NDA?”

“At best I don't get paid. At worst I go to jail.”

Killian's frown comes back full force. “Why do it then? Why me of all people?”

And that is the question. To which she has no answer.

“I don't know.” Emma goes for the honest reply, because it’s better than all the alternatives. “It just seemed like you--- I don't know. Needed someone to look out for you.”

He shrugs. And stays silent, averting his eyes.

“Would you like to tell me what's going on?” Emma finally asks. “Because I really hate it when people get killed on my watch.”

Killian's head snaps up. “Killed?”

Emma leans forward again, puts as much gravitas as she can into her answer. “You _have_ to know what you're getting yourself into. And what the likely outcome will be.”

When he looks at her, his eyes look so tired, so broken, it pulls Emma's heartstrings in a way nothing else ever has. It tears at her, tears a hole in a place she didn't know she had.

“I do know,” he says. “But it doesn't matter. I have to do this. For my brother.”

Emma raises her eyebrows in a question she can't ask.

“They killed him. They killed him and no one could prove anything. No one could hold them accountable. This is the only way he'll ever get any justice.”

Emma reaches back out to touch Killian's hand. She does it slowly, deliberately, to give him time to pull back, but he doesn't. He leaves his hand where it is, lets Emma cover it with her own.

“What if I told you you could have both,” she says. “Let your brother have justice and also survive it.”

“I'd say you were daft.” His voice is still resigned.

“But you can.” Emma squeezes his hand. “I promise you can. I can help you.”

“Nobody can help me.” He's not looking at her.

Emma pulls his hand towards her. “I can. If you let me. I _promise_ I can.”

He is silent for a long time. Silent and still, unmoving.

“Are you sure?” He looks up, and there is a tiny little spark of hope in his eyes now. Like an ember fighting not to die.

“Yes,” she says. “I am sure.”

“Alright.” He exhales a long, shaky breath. “What do you suggest?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was going to be a oneshot. Short, self-contained, just one small idea from beginning to end.  
> And then THIS happened, and now i'm suddenly back in another big, convoluted story.  
> i think i need help.  
> i also think if i don't start posting, i might never get this done. So.... chapters it is.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...in case it comes up during the reading of this chapter, the answer is: YES. i absolutely love 'The Count of Monte Cristo'.  
> If you've never read it, you might want to consider doing so.

“First of all, we should get out of here,” Emma says. It's almost 9 pm and the bar is filling up. A couple just sat down in the booth next to theirs, and she doesn't like it. “I'll get us a room.”

Killian's eyebrows fly up in surprise and Emma rolls her eyes. “Not for _that_. For some peace and quiet.”

Killian's brows settle back into their original position.

“I'll go pay the bill, and then see about that room,” Emma continues. “Will you be here when I get back?”

Killian nods. But it looks like he means it.

 

Emma gets a room by way of cash and a fake ID. The ID is one she has used often, and it’s not very good. It's not supposed to be. Combined with cash it screams _clandestine affair_. Hotel clerks are highly receptive to this combination. Emma suspects a good percentage of any hotel's profits come out of adultery. All the better for her.

It feels like the front desk clerk takes an extraordinary amount of time to book her room and get her the key, and Emma’s skin prickles the entire time. Urgency and doubt collide in her brain and resolve into one single thought, screaming on an endless loop: _What the fuck are you doing?_

This is unprofessional and dangerous and illegal and wrong and the worst, worst, _worst_ idea in the history of ever; and is it too late to simply turn and walk out? She thinks of Killian's face, haunted and sad and so very tired – of life and fate and having to carry on. She thinks of her own life, spent walking the shadow side of human nature, ferreting out abusive husbands and wayward lovers and parents who abandon their children and pay no support. Petty criminals. Actual criminals. The dirty end of the pool which she slogs through every day, dredging up the fallout from indifference and malice. Maybe the question is not about what she is doing now. It might be about her life in general.

The clerk hands her the key card and thankfully keeps her brain from imploding. She takes a deep breath and walks back to the bar.

Killian is sitting on a stool now, waiting for her. He has placed himself at the far end, away from all people; and his shoulders are slumped as he stares at his cup. He doesn't look up, doesn't make eye contact. His entire bearing screams defeat. When she taps him on the back to get his attention he flinches. There is fear in his eyes when he looks up at her, but it quickly subsides and he gives her a brief nod. Then they silently make their way to the room.

 

Upstairs Emma sits down at the bottom of the bed and starts to empty her satchel, while Killian pulls up the only chair. The room is tiny. There is no other way for two people to sit.

He seems to relax a little, now that they're alone.

Emma looks at him closely, watches some of the tension bleed out of him. “That bar was a little much for you, huh?”

He looks up in surprise and the tension snaps right back. Emma mentally slaps her own forehead. “Sorry,” she says, “occupational hazard. Observing everything.”

His shoulders unclench a fraction. “I'm not so great with people.” His voice is low. “This is better. Although I'm still not sure what I'm doing here.”

Talking to him is like trying to calm a spooked animal. “Hopefully saving your life,” Emma says softly.

“There's not much to save.”

“And yet you are here.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I guess I am. But are you the hero or are you the villain?”

The question hangs in the air between them. He's staring at the wall behind her, not meeting her eyes.

She digs deep for an honest answer. “I'm pretty sure I am neither,” she finally concedes. “But I am trying to do the right thing. Do you think you can trust that?”

He pulls back to look at her and it is different this time. Emma feels like she's being scanned. His eyes become x-rays, not just looking but _seeing_ , and it takes everything she has not to squirm under his gaze.

He finally leans back and his mouth quirks up a little. “I believe you,” he says.

It's not trust. But it's enough.

 

Emma boots up her laptop and then pulls out Will's folder. It has doubled in size.

“Is that my file?” Emma nods. “So what's it say, then?”

Emma bites her lip. “Not nearly enough.”

“I very much doubt that. It's practically a book. It looks like 'The Count of Monte Cristo'.”

“That _,_ I have actually read,” Emma says, with a grin. “And it's much longer than your file. Especially since a chunk of this is receipts. For endless cups of coffee.” She sighs. “Surveillance requires an extraordinary amount of staying awake.”

“You've read 'The Count of Monte Cristo'?”

“Yup. My jobs usually come with lots of down time. Reading fills it.” She looks up. “Are we impressed, yet?”

“Very.”

“It's about damn time.”

Emma is absurdly relieved that the heaviness of the first few minutes has passed, but she still feels like she's navigating a sea full of riptides.

“Would you like to tell me about the trial?”

His eyes grow thoughtful. “No,” he finally says. “I don't think I should. I think it would be dangerous. For you.”

Emma can feel her eyes widen in surprise. Apparently Killian is not the only one without a poker face tonight. What on earth has happened to hers?

“I think it's best if you know as little as possible about it,” he clarifies. “You're in enough trouble just talking to me.”

She shakes her head. “I can take care of myself. Don't worry about me.”

“Oh, I don't doubt that for a second,” he says softly. “You have the look of someone who has been relying on herself her entire life. I imagine you're exceptionally good at it. But this.... I won't do this to you. It's too much. It's too ugly.”

She opens her mouth to object and he cuts her off. “Someone should look out for you, too.”

Her mouth snaps shut. A shudder runs through her. He's concerned for her, concerned _for her_ , and she doesn't know what to do with that. He doesn't know her. He's a subject, a case. A stranger whose life she has interrupted, has ripped off its tracks with nothing but the prospect of potential salvation. He should not be looking out for her.

“Don't worry about me,” she repeats. “I understand if there are things you don't want to tell me. I'm nobody. You just met me. You don't know if you can trust me. I understand all of that. But... don't try to protect me. There is no need. If you want to talk to me, do it. I know what I am getting myself into. I can handle it.”

 

Killian smiles a small smile, but doesn't reply, and it falls again quickly.

After a moment he does speak, hesitant and uncertain. “What exactly is your plan?”

“Well,” Emma says, trying to sound as confident as possible. “The obvious solution is to have you testify and then disappear. Completely. Without _any_ trace.”

His eyes are large now, and full of doubt.

“The solution itself is not the problem,” she adds quickly, trying to reassure him. “No matter how obvious it is. It's getting there that's tricky. Getting all the prep right, every little step and detail. Plan an exit strategy that covers every contingency. And pull off a flawless execution.”

The doubt in his eyes has not lessened one iota. “Oh that's all, is it?” His voice turns cutting and derisive. “And you think that you can deliver all that?”

 _He's just afraid_ , Emma thinks. _He's scared and defensive and lashing out. This is not about you._

She raises her chin in defiance. “Yes. I most certainly can.” She can't resist a tiny little dig. “If you deign to let me.”

Killian deflates all at once. “I'm sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn't mean-- I didn't mean to imply that you don't have the skills for this. From what I can tell you could probably plan operations to rival Dantès’ revenge.”

“A reference to the Count? Really? Is this a test?”

Killian looks appropriately chastised. “Sorry,” he says. “Instinct.” It makes Emma wonder what exactly Killian did in the Navy. She hesitates for a split second and then decides to go for it. “ _'There is neither happiness nor unhappiness in the world, there is only the comparison of one state with another.'_ ” His eyes grow wide and she soldiers on. “ _'Only a man who has felt ultimate despair is capable of feeling ultimate bliss. It is necessary to have wished for death in order to know how good it is to live.'”_

She looks at him point blank, and then repeats, softly, "...how good it is to live."

“ _'Wait and hope'_ ,” he whispers, spellbound. “Please accept my apology, love.”

It's just an endearment. He says 'love' like Will Scarlet says 'lass'. It doesn't mean anything; Emma's not even sure he's aware of having said it. But it hits her in a place that is not prepared for it.

Hard.

 

It takes her a moment to shake it off. Not for the first time she fervently wishes that this one fucking word weren't her kryptonite. She actually has to grit her teeth. “Let's get down to brass tacks,” she finally grinds out.

He looks at her, puzzled. Like he's sure he missed something, but doesn't know what.

Emma plows on. “First things first. How much money do you have at your ready disposal? Because this whole operation will not be cheap.” It comes out much harsher than she had intended. She makes an effort to soften her voice. “Not if we do it right. And trust me – you want to do this right.”

 

Killian is silent. Emma waits.

“Are we really doing this?” He finally says, and there are tears. In his eyes. “Do you--- is this real? Really real?”

Emma nods.

“I want to not trust it,” he continues and it sounds helpless. “I want to not trust you. I want to think that this is an elaborate con to put more pressure on me, to make sure I testify. Or to abscond with all the money I have.” He looks at her and his eyes shine with desperation. “And then I look at you and you give me _hope_. And it terrifies me.” He takes a deep breath. “Who _are_ you?”

“I'm just somebody who is trying to help.”

Killian barks out a laugh, brittle and joyless, and it cuts off as suddenly as it began. Then his shoulders sag and all the fight leaves him. “I think I'm out of options.” His voice drops to a whisper. “And if you do turn out to be the siren that sinks my ship, well--- then I will have spent my last days in the company of a beautiful woman. And I suppose there are worse ways to go.”

Emma no longer knows what to say. Those riptides just keep pulling her under.

 

And then Killian blurts out, “fifty thousand dollars. Give or take.”

Emma gasps. She can't help it. “Fifty.... are you serious? Fifty _thousand_ dollars? How on earth--- you work at a warehouse!”

He slowly, very, very slowly pulls his left arm from his jacket pocket. It ends in an empty sleeve. Emma knows about his hand, thought she was prepared for the sight, but it still somehow shocks her. It's suddenly so real, the pain of his past. It's no longer theoretical.

“I got a settlement for this,” he looks down past his missing hand. “I get a Navy pension. And disability.” His voice is carefully, purposely neutral. “I don't really spend much.”

He starts rubbing his left wrist, over his sleeve. His brows draw together, and he presses down on a particular spot with his thumb.

“Does it hurt?” She whispers. It looks like he's in pain.

“Sometimes,” he says, not looking at her. “Best not talk about it. Instead, tell me if I have enough for a stay of execution.”

“You definitely have enough for a good start. This might be easier than I thought.” She narrows her eyes. “Not _easy_ , mind you. Just easi _er_.”

“What do you propose?”

“A new identity, of course,” she answers. “But that's not all, and it won't be just one. You'll have to change it at least once. Mostly because I can't get you an airtight identity in just ten days – you know, a real one, with actual records. Credit cards, registered cars, places of residence and employment. Birth certificate. That takes time, and has to be carefully crafted.” She smirks. “And I don't have the power of WITSEC behind me. Gods, why didn't you ask Regina for a deal?”

He looks down. “I didn't think it mattered.”

Emma sighs. The urge to take him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him, shake some self-worth into him, becomes overwhelming. “You'll have something for the run,” she goes on instead. “You'll get the real one later.” His eyebrows rise in question. “We'll jump off that bridge when we get to it. We have more pressing immediate matters. Like your actual disappearance, the how and when and where of it. And how we get you your Navy checks, even after you've ceased to be Killian Jones. This process has a lot of steps and we have an incredibly short window.”

She bites her lip, thinks for a moment.

“OK,” she finally says, getting up. “I have to get started on this tonight. Let's get out of here.”

“What should I do?”

“Go home, as usual. It's way past your bedtime.” He smiles at that; one of his lovely, genuine smiles. Something brittle inside her starts to unbend. She returns his smile. “For now, just keep going about business as usual. Don't change your routine. Don't start looking over your shoulder. Go on exactly like you've always done. Is that clear?”

He nods. “I have this weekend off. What should I do then?”

“What do you usually do on your days off?”

“Read. Get coffee. Walk around, sometimes.”

“Do that. Do all of that. I'll be in touch. Oh, that reminds me--” she pulls out a cell phone. “Here. It's a burner. It has one number programmed into it. Mine.” She shows him the contact list. The only contact listed is 'Q'.

“Q?”

“Yeah. You know, like in Bond movies?”

He laughs out loud. It hits Emma in the same place the word 'love' did before, but the impact is entirely different. This impact feels _good_. Gods, it feels good.

Killian holds up the phone. “Do you carry around burner mobiles at all times? Just in case you need to rescue someone?”

“Well, no. But I did have almost a whole day off, waiting for you. I couldn't spend it all at the hotel bar.”

Killian laughs again, quieter this time. “No, I suppose not. Although the way you downed that Guinness makes me think you can hold your liquor. Back when I drank, you're exactly the kind of girl I would have challenged to a contest. And most likely lost.”

So he no longer drinks. Emma recalls his arrest record, his father's arrest record. She doesn't want to think about what it might have cost him.

“Emma?” He's looking at her now, a little confused. “Everything alright?”

“Fine, sorry. Just thinking. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“And what exactly are you going to do now?”

“Go home. Go to bed. Go to work. Do nothing out of the ordinary. Wait for your call.” His eyes are sincere. “I won't do anything stupid. I heard you, love.”

It's another punch in the gut, that word, but this time it is a fraction less painful.

A fraction. She'll take it.

“OK,” she says, and manages a smile. “Let's blow this joint.”

 

 

 

 

“I need a favor. A real favor.”

Will Scarlet nearly chokes on his beer.

 

Emma had made a beeline from the hotel to the Rabbit Hole, located her very favorite hacker and pulled him to the back office without preamble. He'd barely had time to grab his glass. Robin, the owner of the bar and rightful occupant of said office, had taken one look at Emma's face and left without a word. Mostly to get out of Emma's way, but also to mind the drinks, since Emma had his only bartender in tow. Tending bar was Will's official day job. Well, night job.

 

“You in trouble, lass?” Will asks, as soon as he gets his breath back.

“Big trouble.” There's no time for obfuscation. “And you can't ask.”

Will nods at her, serious now. “Tell me then, lass. What is it you need?”

“That guy you know, the one who does IDs. I need to meet him.”

Will's eyes grow wide. “Tell me this is not what I think it is.”

“It's not what you think it is.”

“Bollocks!” He spits. “It bloody well is what I think it is!” He grabs her shoulders. “Emma! You stupid little----”

“Be very careful how you end that sentence.”

“You're better than that. You know better than that! I cannot believe you are doing this.”

Emma stays silent. Looks at Will in defiance. He drops his hands and reaches for his beer.

“It's that git you had me look up, innit? He's not worth it, whoever he is.”

“I think he might be.”

Will takes a very long pull from his glass. “You are ruining your life, lass. _Ruining_ it.” He looks at her point blank. “Are you absolutely sure about this?”

Emma stares right back and tries not to blink. “Yes, Will. I am.”

“Bloody hell,” he lets his gaze drop from hers. “Fine. I'll arrange an introduction.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Are you insane? I can't-- not by tomorrow!”

Emma puts her hand on his shoulder, pinches a specific spot as hard as she can. Will actually winces. “Yes you can. Tomorrow.”

“Stop it! I yield! We’ll do it tomorrow. Now let go!" He rolls his shoulder. "One day you will be the death of me, lass.”

“Then at least it will be pretty.” She hears him laugh out loud as she walks out the door.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is different from my first story. Last time i had no idea where i was going at any given point in time.  
> This time around, i know how it ends. i've actually written the end. But i STILL don't know how i'm going to get there.  
> (Remember how this was going to be a oneshot? i had the beginning and i had the end and when i started writing the middle it just BLEW UP IN MY FACE.)  
> Ack.  
> Well, no matter. i'm just going to have to figure it out.  
> Meanwhile, i hope you enjoy this.


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

Late the next evening Emma gets a text from Will.

_Rabbit Hole._  
_NOW._  


Emma runs the whole way.

 

When she gets there she is out of breath and sweating hard, despite the frigid temperature outside. Will nods towards the back office and she goes there to wait for him, snagging a few napkins from the bar on her way. When she enters, wiping her face with said napkins, Robin looks up and rolls his eyes.

“I take it I have to leave my sanctuary again? For the second time in two days? And to tend bar, no less.”

“Sorry about that.” Emma smiles. “You do own the bar, you know. It's not so much to ask you operate it occasionally.”

“I thoroughly detest the inebriation of other people,” Robin replies. “It's loud and messy and utterly unpleasant when you're sober yourself.”

Emma plunks down on the chair in front of his desk and throws the balled-up napkins neatly into his wastebasket. “Have you ever considered opening a coffee shop?”

“There's more money in drunks, I regret to say.”

She laughs out loud and Robin gets up. “I suppose it is time for my bartender to go on break,” he says pointedly. “Since I apparently no longer have any say in his scheduling.”

Emma grins up at him. “Robin,” she says seriously, “you _never_ had any say in his scheduling.”

“Don't I know it,” he sighs and leaves his office, shaking his head.

 

Will comes in a few minutes later, wearing his jacket and scowling like thunder. He merely says, “let's go” and takes off in the direction of the back exit. He starts walking down the street in long strides and doesn't turn around once; Emma has a hard time keeping up. He takes her through a serpentine network of side streets and alleyways, and although she knows this neighborhood well and has a good sense of direction, she gets turned around in no time flat. Fifteen minutes later, they walk up up four flights of a run-down brownstone. Will taps a signal of knocks on an apartment door with peeling black paint and neither number nor name. Emma is busy catching her breath. She has absolutely no idea where she is.

The door clicks and Will enters. Behind it is a dark hallway, lit only by the faint bounce of streetlamps through a tiny window at its very end. Will stops at a door on their right well before that, and knocks a different pattern on it. Emma doesn't bother memorizing the signal. It's bound to change often. The door clicks open as well and they enter a different world.

 

The room looks like a geisha house. The walls are painted red, there is no furniture save a few pillows, the windows are screened with rice paper. Black lacquered wall sconces shine softly on Japanese art. Pornographic Japanese Art. In the middle of the room a woman kneels before a small table, pouring tea. She waves them over and Will sits down without hesitation. Emma feels her knees creak as she lowers herself to the floor.

The woman across from them is definitely not Japanese. She's not Asian at all. And she looks like she just stepped out of the pages of Vogue. Everything about her is incredibly put together and stylish and _red_. So. Much. Red. Her bright red lipstick matches the streaks in her hair, which match her perfectly manicured nails and her skin-tight top. Only her hotpants, which border on indecent, are black, and so shiny Emma can practically see her reflection in them.

“This her, then?” She asks, looking at Will, her chin pointing to Emma.

“That's her.”

“So tell me, my little lost lamb, why should I help you?” Her accent is pure Sopranos New Jersey.

With enormous effort Emma drags her attention away from the incongruity of the entire situation and focuses on the woman before her. “I'm trying to save a life.” It sounds pitiful in these surroundings, and not like a very good reason at all.

The woman laughs. “Is that all?”

Emma nods.

“Oh Will,” the woman says, her perfect red mouth pulled into a perfect red smirk. “You really know how to pick 'em, don't you?”

Will just shrugs, looking more uncomfortable than Emma has ever seen him. The woman picks up her teacup and takes a dainty sip, then urges them to do the same. When she puts her cup back down, no lipstick traces remain on the rim.

“It's a boy, isn't it,” the woman continues. When Emma starts to bristle, she cuts her off. “Honey, it's _always_ a boy. The fact that you're trying to save his life is incidental. Do you love him?”

Emma chokes and spits out her tea. Warm liquid runs down her chin; she tries to wipe it away with her sleeve. She cannot stop coughing.

The woman grins. “Definitely a boy.”

Will takes pity on Emma and slaps her back a few times until she gets her breath back. Then he turns to the woman. “Will you help her, Ruby?”

Of course her freaking _name_ is Red.

She studies Emma for a moment. “You're confused about my whole setup here.” It's a statement of fact. “You don't think someone whose office looks like a Japanese Tea Room could possibly be serious. You don't think I can deliver what Will has promised." Her grin turns wicked. "And you're asking yourself just what the hell you have gotten yourself into. Am I close?

Emma just nods.

"Actually, I only did this---" she waves her hand at the room, "to annoy my girlfriend. Who is Chinese.” She shrugs. “Turns out she's enamoured with Japanese culture. So that kind of backfired.”

“Isn't that odd?” Emma can't help asking.

“Only as odd as a Westerner being fascinated by Japan.” Ruby raises a perfect eyebrow. “But no matter. Before I decide whether or not I will help you, I have to get your whole story. Just wanting to 'save a life' is not reason enough. Will--” she turns and nods at him-- “I think this is your cue to leave. Don't worry. I won't hurt your precious girl.”

“I have never been less convinced of anything.” Will mumbles, but he gets up. “You alright here?”

Emma nods. “I'll be fine. Go.”

As soon as the door shuts behind Will, Ruby leans forward. “OK, Emma,” she says, “you're up. Tell me everything. And I do mean everything.”

 

 

 

At 4:58 pm on Friday evening, Emma turns up at Regina's office. It is an ordinary highrise, which houses many, many different firms offering very different types of services. Emma sees everything from IT security to cosmetic surgery when she scrolls through the lobby index; along with several occupants listed merely by name. At least eight of them are psychiatrists. Regina's entry reads _R. Mills, J.D._  
Nothing about the building or her listing hints at federal ties to anything. Her presence is so low-key, it's practially submerged.  
It appears she wants to attract zero attention.

 

Regina looks at Emma like she is something to scrape off her shoe. Her eyes are narrowed, her mouth a thin, disapproving line.

“You are cutting it very fine, Miss Swan. Apart from this being highly irregular.” She takes the proffered USB stick as if it were uranium. “Dropping off the package at the front desk would have sufficed. There was no need to demand to see me.”

Emma nearly smirks. The front desk had tried to stonewall her on her request to see Regina, but Emma had calmly stated that she either be allowed to drop off her report in person, or not at all. She had been shown into Regina's office less than a minute later. Which means Regina really wants to see it. Emma wonders which parts the DA's office got stuck on. She would have thought they had hackers and snoops with much more might than a part-time downtown bartender.

“I figured out what your case is.”

“Given the nature of the skill set you advertise, I would have been surprised if you hadn't come to some sort of conclusion.” Oh, Regina is _good_. She sounds wholly unimpressed with Emma's skills as a whole, while simultaneously implying that a three-year-old could have come to the same conclusion if given half a chance. Emma has looked up Regina, and she's not mentioned in connection to the Gold case at all. She certainly is not lead council, which might indicate an acute wariness on behalf of the DA's office. Or it might account for her extreme condescension. Emma is inclined to believe the latter.

“You're going after Gold,” she says, point blank. “And Jones is a witness you're just hanging out to dry.”

To her credit, Regina doesn't even blink. “I fail to see what this has to do with you, Miss Swan.”

So Emma's deductions are correct. This is not just tacit admission, it's practically confirmation. Regina is probably not the kind of person who enjoys hiding her achievements.

“Are you sure he will live to testify?”

That gets Regina's head up. “What exactly are you implying, Miss Swan?”

“I'm not implying anything. I'm here to give you facts. It's a fact that a known associate of Mr. Gold's sought him out a few days ago. It's a fact that Jones leads the least protected life of anyone I've ever surveilled. He has neither friends, nor family, nor _relations_.” Try as she might, Emma cannot infuse a fraction of the innuendo Regina originally put into the word. “He is vulnerable on every front. It's a hitman's wet dream.”

“My, my,” Regina raises her formidable eyebrow. “Haven't we given this a lot of thought.”

“It is my job to give you as comprehensive an assessment as possible.” Emma's voice remains steady and detached, although in her mind she is strangling Regina six ways from Sunday. “All I am saying is that from what I have observed, he might not make it to trial. Or at the very least not through it.” She gets up, nods at the USB stick now lying on Regina's desk. “Take from this what you will. But I would have been remiss in not pointing this out to you right away. You denied me email as a form of communication, so I thought I would do it in person. Since it would have taken you a while to get to that section of my report.”

Regina taps a blood red lacquered fingernail on the desktop. “Very well, Miss Swan. Your advice is noted.” It's as complete a dismissal as Emma has ever been subjected to. But at least she got the ball rolling.

It will have to do.

 

 

 

_Holiday Inn on Spring._  
_Room 412._  
_As soon as you can make it._  


__

 

Emma stares at the text for the hundredth time. She sent it to Killian's burner right before his shift ended, hoping he would see it and make his way straight to her. It's now close to 7 pm, and she's still waiting. With mounting anxiety. When finally she hears a knock on the door, she jumps.

 

Killian's jacket and hair are soaking wet. “Sorry that took so long,” he says as she pulls him inside, “but I thought it better to go home first. You know, not break my routine.”

Emma can't help a smile. “You are quick on the draw,” she concedes, willing her heart rate back to normal. “That was the smart thing to do. I take it it's raining outside?”

“Buckets.”

“Well, take off your jacket and go get dry.” She points to the bathroom. “You're no good to anyone with pneumonia.”

His mouth quirks up. “You realize I was in the Navy, right? It's not like I haven't spent half my life soaked to the skin.”

But he slides off his jacket and gets a towel. He dries himself off in the bathroom doorway, and there is something heartbreakingly domestic and vulnerable about the way he rubs the towel across his hair with his right hand, hiding his empty sleeve behind his back. On instinct, Emma steps forward and lightly touches his left bicep. He stills where he stands.

“You don't have to hide this from me,” she says softly. “You don't have to hide this from anyone.”

A shudder runs through him, and she can tell he's fighting not to pull back and run. She steps back and sits down on the edge of the bed.

“I'm sorry if I overstepped. I just wanted you to know.”

 

Killian shakes his head and throws the towel into the bathroom sink. His eyes dart around the room, like he's calculating the best escape route past her, mapping the steps to his jacket and the door. Finally he exhales and his shoulders drop, and he slowly makes his way to a chair. He sits down, not looking at her. When he puts his arms in his lap, his right hand covers the empty left sleeve.

 

“No, I'm sorry, love.” He looks up at her sharp intake of breath. “You were just trying to be kind.” His eyes narrow. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Emma says. “No worries. And also, I now have a plan.”

Killian's smile is small, but genuine. “Only 48 hours later? Impressive.”

“There are a bunch of details we still have to work out,” Emma says. “The biggest one is that I don't yet know how to get you out of court after you testify. The actual building, without using the front door. For that I have to go to City Hall and get the blueprints. But other than that, I can get us started.” She pulls up her legs, gets more comfortable. “First of all, I dropped your file at Regina's office today. I had to give her the complete rundown, everything I found. It would not have looked real otherwise. Sorry.”

Killian shrugs.

“I gave her everything except one little detail: your checks from the Navy. I thought a source of income would be a good thing for you to have, seeing as we're about to spend your life savings. Now – they might know about your pension and disability. But since it's UK government money, it will be hard to seize officially. And I have a plan for that as well. But first things first." She smiles. "I put a bug in Regina's ear.”

“A bug?”

“Not a real bug.” Emma laughs. “Or a recording device. That would be inefficient and also extremely uncomfortable.” The ghost of a grin flits across Killian's face. “No, I just pointed out the fact that you had been 'visited' by Walsh, and your appearance in court was already in danger.”

Killian shakes his head. “Walsh can't convince me not to say my piece. Nothing he says can change my mind.”

“Oh Killian,” she sighs and makes her voice as gentle as possible. “That's not the danger I am talking about.”

His eyes widen. “Oh, you mean-- Oh.”

She nods. “Yes. That's what I mean. Again, I'm so sorry. But I had to. With any luck she will take heed and put you up in a hotel or a safe house until the trial. And during the trial. I really hope she does.”

 

He's looks at her with equal parts accession and annoyance. Like he's forced to admit she has a point and at the same time resents the implication that he can't take care of himself. Emma knows that combination so well, has seen it in the mirror so many times, she can feel warm empathy spread inside her chest.

 

“I know this is hard," she says softly. "I know it feels like you're giving up control over large parts of your life. And I know it's the last thing you want, especially right now.”

“How could you possibly know that?” It sounds brittle and defensive and like a definite accusation.

Emma takes a deep breath and wills her voice to stay calm. Reasonable. Perfectly steady. “Do you think you're the only one who has ever lost a lov-- someone? Or had to hold on for dear life in a perfect storm?” Fuck, Navy. “I don't mean literally. Just you know – in life, the kind of storm brought on by fate and bad decisions and worse luck.”

 

His eyes close. His breathing slows. “No, Swan,” he says after a few long moments, and Emma realizes that it's the first time he has used her name. Ever. “I don't suppose my fate is worse than that of many.”

Emma releases a breath she hadn't been aware of holding. “I know it's a lot. And it's going to get worse. Because you will have to trust me. Trust that I know what I'm doing. Trust that I won't screw you over. Trust that I won't go to Tahiti with your money and leave you back here high and dry.”

“Tahiti?”

She smiles. “It's warm there.”

He leans back and looks at her. “Tell me your plan. All of it.”

 

So she tells him.

About Ruby.  
About getting him an ID for the run, just a driver's license for cheap motels.  
How they have to pick a date and a location to meet a few months from now, so she can give him his permanent identity.  
How Ruby can set up a network of regular and numbered accounts for his checks to bounce through. How the last one will spit it back through Western Union, tied to the name of his temporary ID. How they will change it to the name of his permanent ID once they know what it is.  
How they have to cut all communication once he starts running.  
How he will have to stay small, and keep moving, and stay far away from anything familiar, anything to do with water and boats.  


When Emma gets to that part, Killian takes her hand.

He takes. Her hand.

It looks like he's completely unaware of it. The utter loneliness in his eyes as his fingers brush lightly across her knuckles makes her want to cry. He catches himself as she looks down at their hands, and starts to pull back, but she holds on to him, cannot let him go.

“Killian,” she whispers, careful not to spook him. “It will work, I promise. It will be alright.”

He nods, and his throat moves a few times before he speaks. “This is incredible, Emma. You really-- this is a real plan.”

She squeezes his fingers, tries to give him comfort.

“I didn't think— until you started talking, I didn't think this was real. Didn't think anything like this could ever--- was even possible.” He shakes his head. “I should not have underestimated you. You're kind of formidable.”

Emma smiles. “Kind of?”

“You're incredible. You really are. Although I still can't figure out why you're doing all this for me.”

Emma is so tired of everyone asking this question. Of asking this question herself. Of not having an answer. So she squeezes his fingers again, more tightly this time. “You deserve it.”

He looks at her, his blue eyes dark and serious. “Do I?”

She nods her head with conviction. “You do.”

They stay like that for what feels like minutes, gazes locked, his thumb slowly brushing her knuckles.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know if any part of this escape plan is realistic or feasible. i just couldn't keep researching it, because i was never going to post. (And if anyone checks my recent browser history, they will think i'm in BIG trouble.)
> 
> Anyway, now that i have all the nuts and bolts squared away, i think it's time for some fluff. Don’t you?  
> i think yes. Definitely fluff next.  
> (i'm so very sorry if this was too boring.)


	4. Chapter 4

Emma is lost in a grey concrete building. She runs down dark corridors and checks empty rooms, because she is frantically, desperately searching for something. For something, for something....

It's urgent. So urgent. So crucial, important; but she doesn't know what, or where, or how.

When suddenly.

She enters a room.

 

And there is Killian. Being bound to a chair.

Next to him is Walsh. Cheerfully tying the last knot of the rope. Whistling.

On the other side is Gold. Cheerfully cocking a gun. Smiling.

Killian looks up at her and his eyes are gentle and calm and soft.

She wants to scream, but no sound comes out.

She wants to run to him, but her feet are rooted to the spot.

Walsh straightens up, still whistling his tune, and Gold puts his gun to Killian's temple, and Killian's lips mouth _ThisIsNotYourFault_.

And a shot rends the air.

 

Emma bolts upright. It's pitch dark outside.

Her comforter is twisted and her pillow is soaked and her cheeks are wet. She is breathing hard. All she tastes is panic. And she can't stop to think, can't stop to reason or rationalize; all she can do is pull on boots and a jacket and a beanie and _run_.

 

 

When she gets to the front door of Killian's building her panic is in lock-step with her galloping heart. Her hands shake so badly she can barely work her skeleton key. She takes the stairs two at a time and when she finally gets to his door, she feels like her chest is about to explode. Her breath comes in short, painful gasps. Her fist trembles more than it knocks. It takes Killian forever to answer the door.

Forever.

But then his door finally, finally opens, and there he is, confused and rumpled and half asleep. And alive.

Emma's knees nearly buckle. She holds on to his door jamb for dear life.

 

“Swan?” He mumbles, blinking at her in the dimly-lit hallway. “What are you doing here?” His eyes grow alert. “Is everything alright, love?”

The absurdity of the situation hits her square in the chest, a punch right to the center of her racing heart.

Because she had a nightmare that sent her running ten fucking blocks just to see him, and nothing, nothing, _nothing_ is alright. It's ludicrous. Preposterous. Totally irrational. She hears herself laugh, thin and hysterical, and thinks that this might be the moment she loses her mind. Finally arrived after all these years of hard-won sanity.

Killian's brows draw together with worry and he opens his door wide. “I think you better come in and tell me what happened.”

What happened. It's laughable. It's hilarious. Because nothing. Fucking. Happened.

Except that she really is losing her mind.

Emma tries to straighten up and her knees finally buckle. She sinks to the floor. Can't catch her breath. Can still hear herself laughing. Or is it choking? It's just too funny, whatever it is.

She tilts sideways and feels her head solidly connect with the wooden door jamb. She tries to say “ow”, but it comes out garbled. Then she feels two arms pick her up, just pluck her off the floor, and deposit her on something warm and soft. She has to close her eyes for a moment.

 

 

“I am so so so sorry.” If humiliation was an Olympic sport, she would be a medal contender. Shame does not begin to describe what she feels. She peels off the wet washcloth Killian has put on her forehead, and twists it in her hands just to have something to do.

“What could you possibly have to be sorry about?”

Everything. “Coming here. Making a scene. Scaring you.”

“You didn't scare me.” His voice is calm and gentle. His eyes look at her with concern, and gods, they are blue. “Why don't you tell me what happened, love?”

It's the last straw. She can feel her breath catch.

 

She's suddenly a lost little girl again; lost and weak, helpless, unwanted – but she's no longer that girl, gods _dammit_ , she's not. She has pulled herself from nothing, carved out a place in this world; has conquered misery and pain and enough hardship to last her for several lifetimes, and---

“Could you please not call me that?” Her voice wavers and she hates it. Hates it.

“Call you what? Love?” His voice is so goddamn soft.

It's the middle of the night, and she's on the couch in his apartment; and her skin is so thin, anyone can look through it and see the mess that is swirling beneath. Can see that the only thing holding her together are fraying threads of willpower and hope.

And then, to her complete surprise and utter mortification, she begins to sob.

 

She cries like she has never before cried in her life.

 

Not when she got caught trying to escape her first group home, and was locked in a closet for punishment. For two days. Not when she spent her first night on the street, huddled on a park bench; cold and hungry and so very afraid. Jumping at shadows. Not when she went to her first shelter and saw rows upon rows of defeated souls, their eyes empty and hopeless, mapping out her future. Telling her without words she might become one of them. Not when the love of her life left her because she thought she was pregnant; left her before she could tell him the stick hadn't turned blue. Said, _iLoveYou,But_ and walked out of her life.

 

Apparently the thing that it takes to become her undoing is a nightmare about someone she hardly even knows. And the four-letter word he insists on using.

Gods, she's pathetic.

 

 

When Emma comes back to herself, she finds she is curled up in Killian's lap; her face buried in his chest, his arms wrapped around her. His hand slowly, soothingly rubbing her back. She wipes her face with her shirtsleeve and tries to find her voice.

He smiles at her; small and heartfelt and kind. “Please don't apologize, Swan. Don't say you're sorry.”

It brings her up short. She huffs in frustration. “I don't--- I don't know what happened. I never--- I don't cry. I don't do that.”

“It looks like it's been a long time coming.”

She tries to straighten up, but he doesn't let go. His arms hold her firmly, his body warm against hers. “Talk to me, Swan,” his voice is a whisper. “Why are you here in the middle of the night?”

“It's stupid,” she says. “It's ridiculous.”

He merely waits, holding her gaze.

“I had a nightmare. You were in it. You died.”

“I died?”

“Gold killed you. Shot you in the head, right in front of me.” She shudders at the image, his arms tighten around her. “And then I woke up, and just... ended up here.” She will not tell him she ran. Or that she has never been more afraid in her life. She puts her head on his chest, can't keep looking at him. “It felt pretty fucking real.”

 

His hand keeps rubbing circles on her back. She slowly relaxes as they quietly sit.

 

“Liam was always a pain in the ass,” Killian finally says, and Emma knows what he's doing.

He's offering up a piece of himself.

 

“He was the perfect officer where I was more like the screw-up.” He chuckles. “I had a small problem with authority. Not a great quality to have in the military.” His voice grows serious. “Liam was relentless. Forced me back on the right path time and again. Made me see the error of my ways over and over. Helped me cast out my demons and finally excel.” He takes a deep breath. “Then the accident happened and I lost my hand. And went a little nuts. I had a settlement to spend and Navy money to burn. Dove to the bottom of every bottle I could find.”

He's silent for a moment, and Emma puts her hand on his chest. Feels his steady heartbeat.

“It took Liam more than a year to find me, but find me he did. Told me to get myself sober, or he'd have my bloody hide. Told me he was leaving the Navy for a job in the States. Told me to wait for his call, and be cleaned up when it came.”

He sighs. It sounds far, far away. “And he did call, not even six months later. Had a visa for me, and a job lined up. Said it didn't matter about my hand. That I didn't need it to check cargo listings and track shipping containers.”

Emma's breath hitches. His job is actual _logistics_. No wonder Regina wants him in court.

“So I came over here, and started to work, and everything was good. And then I saw less and less of Liam. He kept saying he was working on a new venture. An opportunity for us to make some real money. Go into business for ourselves. We'd always dreamed of settling in a small town by the ocean, do sailing trips for tourists. He said he was making our dream come true.”

 

A shudder runs through him and Emma puts up a hand, holds onto his arm. Squeezes it tightly, so he knows that she's here. With him.

 

“And then one evening I get a call.” His voice is barely audible now. “The police have a John Doe in their morgue. A John Doe whose phone has a contact listing for 'Little Brother'. Which is my number. Would I mind terribly coming down and helping identify him?” Killian laughs. If despair were to be expressed in a laugh, it would sound exactly like that. Emma's hand wraps more tightly around his wrist.

“So I go down to the morgue. And there he is. My older brother, the epitome of good form, who has never walked anything but the straight and narrow. Lying in a morgue, shot three times in the chest.”

 

Emma reaches up and cups his cheek with her other hand. “Killian, I'm so sorry.”

He looks at her, smiles a sad little smile. “So now you know. The whole ugly truth of it.”

She holds his gaze, rubs her thumb across his cheek. There's nothing she could possibly say, so she tries to tell him what she feels by touch. He looks back, unblinking. Searching her eyes.

Whatever he's looking for, he seems to find it. His eyes grow warm, and he swallows hard.

 

Then he clears his throat. “The irony is that I know nothing. All these people trying to get me to talk or shut up, and the reality is that I don't know anything. The shipments I tracked at Jīn were legit. I don't know what Liam was doing. I've never met Mr. Gold. I didn't know his henchman until he came to see me in the par---”

Killian stops talking abruptly, and looks down at Emma's hand.

She follows his gaze and sees what he sees: her hand, wrapped around his blunted left wrist. He flinches, but she doesn't let go.

“Emma,” he says. He is shaking a little and breathing fast.

“Is this hurting you?” The last thing she wants is to cause him pain.

“No,” he whispers. “It doesn't--- hurt.”

She starts rubbing it gently. His eyes slide closed. His breathing slows down.

Slowly, very, very slowly, she pushes his sleeve back, exposing the limb. Killian's breath stops. His eyes fly open. Emma looks at his arm.

It's a mess of ugly scars at the wrist, spider-webbing up across his forearm and finally vanishing under his pushed-up sleeve. It looks like some of them might reach up to his shoulder.

She gently runs her hand down his forearm, follows the scars with her fingertips down to the source.

Then she lifts up his wrist and presses her lips to his skin.

“Emma.” His voice is unsteady and thin. “Emma, I---”

“Shhhhh,” she says. “There's been enough pain for one night.” She can feel his exhaustion. She can feel her own.

 

His eyes are huge. His voice drops to a whisper. “Stay with me. Please. Stay here tonight.”

She hesitates. “I'm not sure it's safe. And you have to get up in a few hours.”

He smiles, bright and genuine for the first time. “It's Saturday,” he says. “I don't have to get up at all.”

Emma looks at him. It's a bad idea. Then again, she doesn't have to be anywhere tomorrow. City Hall won't open again until Monday. And she simply can't bring herself to make his smile fall.

“OK, I'll stay.” His smile grows even brighter. “Seeing as I'm already wearing pajamas.” She bites her lip. “I kind of left in a hurry.”

He looks down at her polkadotted legs and laughs.

 

And that's how they fall asleep.

Emma still wearing her ridiculous pajamas and Killian curled around her -- in a small bed in a tiny apartment, just as the sun is beginning to rise.

 

 

 

While somewhere uptown in a nondescript highrise, sleep-deprived paralegals are combing case files and records and a small man with glasses finally says, “there it is”. And a satisfied smile appears on Regina's perfect burgundy lips.

 

While somewhere near the harbor, Walsh sits in an office, puts down his phone, and nods at Mr. Gold.

 

And somewhere in a city far away from it all, a man checks a text message and starts to get dressed. When he leaves his room he only carries one suitcase. With the finest sniper rifle money can buy.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know if this counts as fluff. My muse just grabbed the reins and ran away with this chapter.
> 
> (Also, i know this is a little on the short side, but real life insists on interfering with my writing time. Grrrrrr.)


	5. Chapter 5

 

The sound of glass shattering. _Go back_.

Images start to stutter and shuffle.

 

 

When Emma wakes up on Saturday, she is warm. And comfortable. She is wrapped in a huge down comforter, hugging a pillow, and-- alone. Killian is not in bed. She gets up and finds him in the kitchenette, pouring water into the coffeemaker. He looks up when he hears her come in and smiles. “You're awake.”

Emma yawns. “What time is it?”

He looks at his watch. His movements are languid and unhurried, like this situation is entirely ordinary. “Almost 1 pm. Sleep OK?”

“I haven't slept this well in years. Or as lon---” she shudders. “Is it me, or is it cold in here?” She rubs her arms.

“They've been having trouble with the heat this winter. It's been going out. Hang on.” He goes into the bedroom and comes back with a heavy knit sweater. “Want to put this on?”

Emma takes it gratefully, and pulls it over her head. It's like wearing the comforter, huge and soft and oh so warm.

Killian motions to the couch. “Why don't you go sit down? There's a blanket on the sofa. I'll bring your coffee as soon as it's done.”

She snuggles herself into the corner, cross-legged; pulls down the blanket and looks around.

 

Killian's apartment is small and sparse and supremely impersonal. There is the couch and a rickety coffee table. The kitchenette is little more than a stove with two burners, a sink and a few cabinets. In front of it is a formica table with two mismatched chairs. A dilapidated book case leans on the left wall, stuffed to the brim. The furniture looks like it came from Goodwill. There are no pictures on the walls, no personal items anywhere. It looks like he is a stranger in his own home.

Emma sighs and realizes that the sweater smells like Killian. She takes another deep breath. There is something so surreal about her being here that she simply cannot bother to think about it. So she leaves her mind blank and just sits there, watching Killian make buttered toast and pour coffee and breathing in his scent. It feels peaceful.

 

Eventually Killian walks over to her, a plate balanced on his left forearm, two steaming cups in his right hand. “You alright now, love? Warm enough?”

She almost doesn't flinch, turns it into a nod. She spent all her emotions during the night. He puts everything on the coffee table, which wobbles a little, and sits down at the other end of the couch.

“Come here,” she says. “We can share the blanket.”

He smiles as he scoots over to her, pulls it across his knees and then reaches for his cup.

“I hope you're good with toast,” he says, shrugging a little. “It's all I had. I'll go get us some food later.” He looks at her, hesitation in his eyes. “Unless you have to run?”

Emma shakes her head. “No. You're stuck with me at least until dark.”

“Really? Why is that?” He smiles again, happy. “Trust me, I am not complaining. In the least.”

“I really don't want anyone to know I'm here, and I do mean anyone.” She looks straight at him. “That can only go badly, for both of us.” Killian nods. “I think I got away with it last night, because I was wearing a beanie and crazy pajama pants, and I used my skeleton key to open the front door.”

“Ah. I've been meaning to ask how you managed to just show up on the third floor.”

“Yeah. That's not exactly a sophisticated lock you have downstairs. Anyway, it was 3:30 in the morning. If anyone was watching your building, I hope it looked like I was a resident, just coming home from a night out. But I can't exactly walk out your front door in broad daylight.” She picks up her cup and takes a sip.

Killian looks at her, flustered. “Emma, I'm sorry,” he says. “I didn't even ask how you take your coffee.”

Emma can't help but smile. Out of all the things he could be worried about, he's concerned about her _coffee_. “I drink it black.”

Killian exhales. “Oh that's lucky for me. Because I have neither cream nor sugar, I don't think.”

Emma laughs out loud. It feels good.

“So, what's the plan then? Sneak out after dark?”

“Yup,” Emma says, still smiling. “Down your fire escape. I saw that you have one outside your bedroom window.”

“That I do,” he says with a raised eyebrow, and it almost sounds like a hint of innuendo. Here in his apartment, sitting next to her on the couch, he looks relaxed and loose and completely at ease. It's a far cry from the reticent, apprehensive man she first encountered in a hotel bar. He even looks less weary. They sit sipping their coffee and eating toast for several minutes in comfortable silence. Emma can't remember if she ever had a morning as tranquil as this.

 

The shrill ringing of the phone interrupts their peaceful lull. It's Killian's landline. He looks at her, his brow furrowed, and gets up to answer. The conversation is extremely brief, and when he comes back to her, he sits down with a sigh.

“That was Regina,” he says. “Seems that 'bug in her ear' worked. I'm to report to the Marriott on Delaney tomorrow afternoon no later than five.”

“What is with her and that time of day?” Emma mumbles to herself. Out loud she says, “that's good news. One less thing to worry about.”

“She says the trial starts next Monday and she doesn't know when they'll get around to me. She wants me to take the time off work.”

Emma reaches out, takes Killian's hand. “That makes perfect sense. Takes you out of the line of fire.”

“But I'll be sitting in a hotel room with nothing to do. All next week and who knows how long after that.” He looks dejected, out of sorts. His shoulders are tense. “I'm not so great with empty time on my hands.”

She squeezes his fingers. “You'll just have to bring lots of books.” She smiles. “And I'll just have to find a way to come and check up on you.”

He smiles back, small, but genuine. “That would be good.”

 

They sit for another long moment, their comfortable silence restored. Emma holds his hand until she realizes that it's preventing him from drinking his coffee. “Sorry,” she says softly, squeezing his fingers one more time for good measure and then letting go. “Didn't mean to keep you from your caffeine.”

He looks straight at her, his expression open. “I didn't mind, love.”

Her sip goes down the wrong pipe and she sputters.

 

He claps her back a few times and then turns to face her. His eyes are soft. “I'm sorry Emma, but I have to ask.” His voice is calm, and quiet. Gentle. “Why are you so allergic to the word 'love'?”

Emma looks down. “Didn't we exorcise enough demons last night?”

“I did. You only told me about a nightmare.” He doesn't mention Emma's outbreak of tears, and she's ridiculously grateful for that. He's looking at her, still with that open expression on his face, and she exhales a long breath. If she does it fast, it will be like ripping off a band-aid. And he deserves to know.

Since she did spend an eternity sobbing in his arms.

 

“I had a boyfriend a few years ago,” she says, her voice carefully neutral. “I grew up in the system and spent some time on the streets, and he was the first person who ever truly cared about me. He was kind and generous and wonderful and he told me he loved me every day. I thought we would spend our lives together. I thought he was the love of my life.” She takes a deep breath, exhales slowly. “We lived together. Worked at the same bail bonds outfit. He was the one who encouraged me to get a PI license on top of that, supported me while I did it. We always talked about opening our own agency one day. And then---” she has to take another deep breath, “one day I told him I was late.”

“Late?”

“Yeah. Late.” _Please don't make me explain_.

But he doesn't ask her to elaborate. Just nods.

“I was more than a week late. I was on the pill, and I thought it was impossible, but there it was.” She stares down into her coffee as if it had answers. “I made myself crazy trying to remember if I had accidentally skipped a day. I couldn't think of one. Couldn't explain it. But seven days had come and gone and so I told him.” She can no longer see her cup. Neal's face rises before her mind's eye. His face and the shock, the consternation on it.

“He just looked at me. At first I thought it was in surprise. It took me a moment to realize he was angry. Really, really angry. He said he wasn't prepared for that. That he never signed up for this. He said, and I quote, 'I love you, but not that much'. To my face. And then he left. That same night. Took all of his things with him. Quit his job, went to work for a competing firm. Left me with bills I couldn't pay by myself and an apartment I couldn't afford.”

Her chest feels tight, and she tries to exhale. It doesn't help. “Then I found out that the utilities and everything else wasn't in both our names. They were in my name only. And I was left hanging.”

Far, far removed from herself Emma notices Killian taking her hand, twining his fingers between hers. But she can't look, and she can't stop now.

“So I got evicted and found myself a little broom closet of a place. It was about the size of your bedroom.” She laughs, can hear the bitterness in her own voice. “Spent the first few months without power, because I had defaulted on all my payments and my account was frozen. I had to bring down a lot of skips to pay for it all, get my life going again. But at least I wasn't pregnant.”

Another deep breath. Her chest feels like it's stuck in a vise. “I ran to the drugstore the night that he left. Actually ran. The test came back negative. I got my period the next day. It was just a fluke.”

Killian's thumb is brushing the back of her hand. It should not be as comforting as it is.

“I heard at some point that Neal – that's his name – had opened his own business. A year later I went freelance. I still do bond skips for my old employer, but I no longer work for him. He sends me his lists, lets me go after the ones I want. He's really good to me. Better than I deserve.” Killian draws breath, but she goes on, has to get it done now. “I rented a small office space, and that's where I do my PI work. Neal sometimes sends clients my way, if he can't fit them in. I think it's his way of apologizing. I would tell him to shove it, but I can't afford to turn down business.”

 

She looks up. Killian's expression is a perfect combination of empathy and rage. She almost laughs again.

“So now you know,” she says softly, echoing his words. “The whole ugly truth of it.”

 

He stares at her for a moment longer, and then he lets go of her hand. The loss of contact is almost painful. Then he takes her cup from her cramped fingers, puts it down on the table, leans forward and wraps her in a crushing hug. Tight and close and forceful. He holds her for so long that she can no longer tell if he's holding her, or holding on to her.

“I'm so sorry, Emma.” His voice is low, his mouth right next to her ear. “I am so, so sorry.”

He leans back to look at her, still with that mixture of compassion and fury. And then leans in and just. Kisses her.

His lips are soft and inviting. He tastes of coffee and toast and something so wonderful, so Killian, and it is like nothing, nothing she has ever felt before. He is kissing _her_ , not asking for anything in return. She winds her hands into his hair, kisses him back for all she is worth, and it's so soft, so gentle, so very different from any kiss Neal ever gave her that Emma can't help but let herself fall into the sensation.

So this, _this_ is what it means to be kissed. She'd had no idea.

 

And then her phone beeps.

With extreme reluctance they come apart. Emma has to walk over to her coat by the door, and she feels the cold in every step. She riffles through her pockets until she finds her cell and hastily makes her way back to the couch. Killian pulls back the blanket and opens his arms, and she sinks against him with a shudder. He's so, so warm; and he pulls the cover back over her, his arm around her shoulder, rubbing slow, lazy circles down her back. She checks her message. It's from an unknown number.

 

_My place. Now._  
_30204 – 10502-1_  
_Bring him. And the $._  
_Red_  


__

 

It can only be Ruby. Emma holds her phone up for Killian to see. “This sucks on so many levels,” she says. “First and foremost because I have no pants.”

Killian smiles and kisses the top of her head. “There's a cheap clothing store down the street. I can run down and get you something to wear.”

She looks up and smiles. “Leggings would be great. Meanwhile I'll figure out how to leave this place. And the best way to get to Ruby from here. Last time I was so lost, it took me forever to get home.”

Killian's brow furrows. “What are these numbers?”

“I think they're knocks. Code for her doors. If I had to guess, at the front door it's three knocks, then two, then four. And on her office door it's--” she thinks for a moment, “one knock, then five, then two and one in quick succession.”

“You're kind of brilliant, Swan.” He smiles at her with affection.

“Yeah, well, it helps if you've been there. Know that there is knocking involved.”

He kisses her neck, where it meets her shoulder, and a shiver runs through her. Then he brings his mouth up to her ear. “All the same, I find her timing extremely inconvenient.”

“I know,” Emma whispers. “I'd much rather stay here right now.” She looks up at him and he kisses her again, and again it's soft and warm and so, so wonderful. She doesn't want it to end.

 

Finally he disentangles himself from her and gets up. “Alright then. If I don't get going now, we will never leave.” He walks to the door, gets his shoes and his coat.

“Killian,” Emma says with some hesitation, “I'm so sorry, but I have to ask. What about the money?”

He looks up. “Right,” he says, and then walks to the kitchenette.

“Do not tell me you have fifty grand lying around your _kitchen_.”

“No better place to keep it.” He's smiling again. “Come here, look.” He pulls out the trash can from under the sink, and takes out the garbage bag. When she looks into the empty receptacle she sees newspapers down at the bottom. Killian picks them up and it turns out to be something _wrapped_ in newspaper, something rectangular. And heavy. He puts it on the kitchen counter and folds back the paper and Emma's breath catches.

It's a gold bar.  
A fucking _gold bar_.

She's speechless. Killian looks at her, and his eyebrows dance. “There's not really any other way to transport a large chunk of money between countries,” he says, grinning. “And I'm not overly fond of banks. So I converted my money to this. It's not like I needed it for expenses. Brought it over in my suitcase, wrapped in my underwear.”

She laughs, helpless. “But in the trash can? Really?”

“Burglars check in all the usual places these days. You know, toilet tanks and flour cans and whatnot. They don't check the rubbish bin. Especially if there's actual rubbish in it.”

She looks up at him, sees that his grin is mischievous, almost impish. It's like getting a glimpse of the person he must have been before tragedy dismantled him. She returns his smile, hopes that he can see how much she means it. “You're kind of brilliant yourself, you know.”

He leans in and kisses her within an inch of her life. When he pulls back, his eyes are shining. “Oh gods, I have to go. Now. Or we really won't leave. I'll be right back, love.”

It's not until he's out the door that she realizes he said 'love' and she'd had no reaction at all.

 

 

Sharp pain in her side. Buzzing in her ears.  
_Go back_.

 

 

“You're kidding.” Ruby stares at the gold bar. “This is crazy.”

 

They had made their way to Ruby's office via a circuitous route. It had started with Emma taking the fire escape to the roof and literally jumping two buildings before she'd descended and met Killian in a back alley a few blocks away. When she'd told him what she'd done he'd nearly had a coronary. And then hugged her, tight and hard, and kissed her again.

When they'd arrived on her doorstep, Ruby had taken one look at Killian and then smirked at Emma. “It becomes a much better story when you see the object of it.” Her grin had been wicked. Then she'd walked them to the tea room and pressed a button on a small remote. Half of the left wall had slid back and revealed her actual office – a room loaded with computers and server racks in cooling towers; regular printers, a 3D printer, and lots and lots of equipment Emma couldn't even identify. When she'd asked about the cash, Killian had wordlessly plunked the gold bar on the desk next to him.

 

Now three pairs of eyes are staring at the gold on the table. Killian's hand finds Emma's and wraps around it.

“Well,” Ruby says, finally looking up, “I guess I have dealt with more outlandish forms of payment. Not many, but I have. First of all, let's see what it's worth.” She weighs the bar on a digital scale she apparently just happens to have, and then goes online to check the current price of gold. After a few calculations she turns back to them.

“51,340.67 in hard currency,” she says. “30 grand of that is mine. Which means I owe you---”

“21 grand and we'll call it even,” Killian replies.

Ruby smiles and looks at Emma. “I can see why you like him.” Before Emma has a chance to say anything Ruby goes on. “Oh, unclench. Anyone can see you two like each other. Your aura walked five feet ahead of you when you guys came in.”

Emma very obviously does not look at Killian, and he stares straight ahead, but his grip on her hand tightens for a moment.

 

Then Emma's brain catches up to the conversation. “Wait – 30 grand? I thought it was ten for the IDs and ten for the bank setup. That's only 20.”

“Your arithmetic is flawless,” Ruby grins, raising a perfect eyebrow. “But that's before you asked me to make Regina's computer my bitch.”

Emma's breath catches. She says, “did it work?” at the same time Killian says, “what?”

“It worked like a charm. That's a neat little piece of code Will wrote. Then again, it ought to be for the price I paid for it.” She gives them both a pointed look. “I hardly had to tweak it at all. Spread the pieces across half the scans in your report; her system's security programs never had a chance. It took almost a day for the program to assemble itself, but now we own her.” Ruby turns a monitor towards them. On it there's an icon named 'RM'. “That's her hard drive, perfectly mirrored to one of my servers,” she says, and clicks on it, opening the entire file structure of Regina's computer. “See? Everything is here. As long as she's online, she's all yours. And if she ever goes offline, the files will update themselves as soon as she's on again.”

“Won't she notice if we open her files here?” Emma says, but Killian interrupts her.

“Will somebody please tell me what the hell is going on?”

Ruby raises her eyebrow again. This time it's in admonition. “You haven't told him?” She turns to Killian. “Honey, when Emma first came to see me about you, she asked if it was possible to hack Regina. Just to see what she was up to. Among other things. Since Emma hadn't yet dropped off her report, and Regina was so kind as to request she put it on a USB stick, I planted a little bit of malware on it. That way Regina infected her hard drive herself as soon as she opened the file. Pretty much did the work for us. The results of which you can see on this monitor.”

She turns back to Emma. “To answer your question, dear, no, she won't notice a thing. She is actually no longer working on her own hard drive, but on its mirror, right here on my server. And since my server is a bajillion times faster than her computer, she will be nothing but pleased that things are working great.”

Emma laughs. “A bajillion?”

“That's a technical term. Of course, if she's ever offline, her computer will be slower again, but she does not strike me as someone who spends much time offline. Did you notice her setup?”

Emma nods. “Desktop monitor with laptop attached.”

“Perfect. That means chances are good everything is on this particular hard drive.”

 

It's then that Emma notices that Killian has gone very still. Only his hand is still clutching hers. Hard. She turns to him, squeezes his fingers back. “Are you OK?”

He looks at her, his eyes wide and glassy. “You did this for me? Before you even--- before---” He swallows hard. “You did this after the first time we met? When I was nothing but rude and distant and just-- awful to you?”

“Killian,” Emma says, and she cups his cheek, Ruby's prying eyes be damned. “You were none of those things. None of them. You were a little overwhelmed, and no one could possibly blame you for that. Please don't think badly about our first meeting. I don't.”

His eyes close and he leans into her touch. “Thank you.” The words are heavy. And serious. And so, so honest.

“Jesus, get a room you two.” Emma can practically hear Ruby rolling her eyes. She doesn't care. She rubs Killian's cheek with her thumb and repeats her original reason. “You deserve it.”

His eyes open, and gods, the look he gives her. Skeptical and insecure and yet full of hope. “Are you sure?”

Emma's voice is firm and steady and certain. “Yes. Absolutely.”

 

“Ahem.” Ruby pulls them out of their moment and they both turn to look at her. “I have a no-sexual-tension policy in my office,” she states, “unless it's mine and Mulan's. So can we please get back to the business at hand?”

“Your girlfriend's name is _Mulan_?” Emma can't help a grin.

“No, of course it's not. It's something Chinese and unpronounceable. Which is why I call her Mulan.”

“I still think ten thousand is kind of steep for a hack that practically did itself,” Emma says.

“Oh honey,” Ruby answers, “the ten grand isn't just for the hack. This is a trial nearly a year in the making. If you want to get through all of the documents you're going to need my help. And _that's_ going to cost you.”

“She's right, love,” Killian says, and again Emma doesn't flinch. If he notices he doesn't show it, and she's grateful for it.

“OK, fine,” she says. “Especially since Killian said he doesn't know anything, doesn't even know why he's a witness.” She turns to him. “Regina never mentioned what exactly she wanted you to testify about, right? You just agreed because...” her voice trails off. Ruby doesn't need to know this.

Killian nods. “No, she never said. Just told me to be available.” He looks at Ruby. “I already told Emma that I never met Gold. The shipments I tracked at my job were not illegal, at least as far as I could tell. My brother Liam seems to have been involved in some of Gold's shadier dealings, but I don't know what they were.” He shakes his head. “I never knew why she approached me, I don't have anything to offer. But I couldn't not do it.” Emma tightens her arm around his waist, and he leans into it. “Not if there was any chance of helping to bring down Gold.”

“Well, she wants you for something.” Ruby purses her lips, her expression pensive. “All the more reason to get through her documents as fast as we can.”

Emma points at the monitor. “So how do I get access to these files?”

Ruby holds up a USB stick. “This is everything on the case so far. I don't want to give you server access, because I don't want to open up any doors for potential fuck-ups. I don't know your system, I don't know your firewall, I don't know what protections you're running. I clustered the files into numbered folders. Just start with the first one. I'll start with the last and we'll meet in the middle. And I'll keep track of all new files and documents added. If something pops up, I'll text you.”

“I was going to ask about that. Do you need me to get a burner? So no one can get whatever number it is that you're texting me from?”

Ruby shakes her head in mock despair. “Have you learned nothing? Do you really think anyone out there can trace a phone number back to me?” Emma looks down and shakes her head, mutely. “Good,” Ruby goes on, “then I guess it's picture time. Killian, if you would be so kind?” She points at the corner, where a camera is set up, pointed at the wall. “Let's get us the prettiest passport photos ever made.”

 

Emma drinks tea while Ruby takes Killian's pictures, different ones for each ID. Then she does a 360° facial scan, to “photoshop him into a life”. He looks both uncomfortable and determined while Ruby flirts with him shamelessly. When she takes his thumb print, her hand wanders up his arm and Emma watches Killian's jaw set as he forces himself not to snatch his hand back. Ruby laughs out loud.

When they're finally done, Killian's shoulders are hunched almost to his ears. Emma walks over to him and simply wraps her arm around his waist. She can feel him relax a fraction. He puts his arm around her and pulls her into his side. There's a faint tremble in his hand.

Ruby grins at them both. “I guess that's it,” she says. “Although I would have loved to take a whole different set of pictures of you.” Killian pulls Emma in tighter. “Then there's only the question of your change. If you would be so kind as to wait out in the tea room.”

Ruby lets the wall retract again, and Emma and Killian both go back to the geisha house.

 

“So what now?” Killian asks.

“What do you mean?”

“It's 5 pm. By my count I have 24 hours before I get locked into a hotel room.” Uncertainty and hope battle in his eyes. “Can you---- is there any way you can--- any way we can spend that time together?”

Emma smiles. “Only if you let me use the fire escape again.”

“Are you crazy? It's dark out! You can't jump buildings at night. I still can't believe you did it during the day. I can't believe you did it at all.”

“It wasn't a big deal. They were only a few feet apart.”

Killian shudders and bends his mouth to her ear. “Please don't do it again. Ever.”

A pleasant shiver runs down Emma's spine. It's a new experience to have someone worry over her, and it's not entirely unpleasant. Quite apart from the fact that he is nuzzling her neck, and that is very, _very_ pleasant. With an effort she focuses her attention and answers. “Well, you did mention it's dark. The alley behind your building is practically unlit. I think I can get away with just climbing your fire escape this time.”

He breathes a sigh of relief and is about to kiss her when the wall slides back and Ruby enters. She hands Killian two stacks of hundreds, each neatly wrapped with a paper ribbon that says $10,000 on it. The stacks are not very big.

“Get a chunk of that changed to twenties before you leave,” she says. “Hundreds attract attention. Do it at check cashing places, not banks, and don't change more than two thousand at each. Got that?”

Killian nods.

“Good,” Ruby smiles at both of them. This time it's with fondness. “Now get the hell out. Mulan will be here in half an hour and I'm going to have to have sex with her on every available surface to get the image of you guys' cuteness out of my head.”

 

 

The pain shoots up. Radiates down her spine.

 _Go back, GoBack_.

 

 

They are sitting on Killian's couch in the dark. The glare of streetlamps and neon signs are the only light in the room. Takeout containers litter the coffee table. The heat has come back on, but the apartment is still not what Emma would call warm; and so she is cuddled into Killian's side, under the blanket. His hand strokes her side in slow circles and he drops the occasional kiss on her head. They haven't talked since they finished eating.

 

“Are you tired, love?” Killian finally asks, his voice quiet. “Do you want to go to sleep?” Emma shudders, and his arm tightens around her. “Are you cold?”

Emma shakes her head. There's a lump in her throat. She doesn't want to break this moment, but she's been chewing on the words since they got back to his place, and she has to say them sometime.

“I'm not cold.” Her voice sounds raw. “I'm scared.”

“Scared? Of what?” He pulls back to look at her. “Do you think we're not safe here? That anyone saw you come in?”

“No,” she shakes her head again. “I'm scared we're going to start something we can't finish.”

She feels his sigh through her whole body. He looks at her with such longing that it nearly breaks her heart.

“I know,” he whispers, almost to himself. “Gods, I know.”

She has to force the words past a new lump in her throat. “I just... you're going to have to leave. Soon. And we can't---”

“I know,” he repeats. “This is borrowed time. But gods help me, Emma, I--” He looks at her with those soft, soft eyes. “I can't believe I'm going to have to let you go. Now that I've finally found you.”

He laughs and it's the most helpless sound she's ever heard. His hand slides to the back of her neck and he presses his lips to hers; a kiss that is more about connection than anything else. She can feel tears spring to her eyes. When she pulls back to look at him, his eyes are wet, too.

“I don't want to go.” His voice is barely audible.

“I don't want you to go.” It's the truth, her truth, despite the circumstances; and he has to know.

He leans his forehead against hers, winds his fingers into her hair.

“Emma....” It sounds desperate and broken and so very sad.

 

It's not fair. She rails against the injustice of it all, the _wrongness_ of it all; because how can her life put this beautiful person in her path, this gorgeous, funny, wonderful man; how can it let her make a connection, a real connection, only to rip it all away? To leave her behind in pieces _again_ , pieces she's not sure she'll ever be able to fit back together, now that she knows what a connection really is. It's spectacularly unfair. Cruel, even.

He's still looking at her, with longing, with anguish, and Emma can no longer hold back.

She leans forward and her kiss is bruising, all lips and teeth and stuttering breath; and he pulls her close, gives as good as he gets, and kisses her back with what feels like desperation.

He shifts her into his lap and she straddles to face him, nipping his throat, both hands in his hair. She can feel him now, rock-hard against her, and she moans as his mouth crashes down on hers. She starts moving her hips and he growls with the friction, and in one swift move he gets up off the couch.

Emma clings to him, her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, as he carries her into the bedroom and puts her down on the mattress. He straightens up for a moment, just looks at her lying there, waiting; his breathing ragged, his eyes wide and dark.

“Emma,” he whispers. She knows what he's asking.

“Come here.” She pulls him down by his shirt front and he blankets her body, runs his hand down her side and finally, finally slides it between her legs, cupping her mound, and _oh gods_.

There is pulling of fabric and tearing of seams; and kissing and licking and skin, so much skin – warm and soft and hers, all hers. She takes him in hand, feels him ready and straining, and she thinks she might combust from the pleasure, the hunger, the ache building inside her. He pushes himself up, looks her straight in the eye, and she nods.

He enters her with a stuttering breath, and nothing, nothing, _nothing_ has ever felt this good.

Or this right.

This is where she belongs, no matter what.

 

 

She kisses him awake the next morning and he rolls them around, sleepy and languid. He takes his time; and it's softness and tenderness and so much emotion she thinks she might break from the sheer sensation. When the stars finally explode behind her closed eyes, it's so sweet and so beautiful it brings tears to her eyes.

They spend most of the day in his bed, wrapped around each other.

They don't talk, because there is nothing to say.

 

When the time comes to get up they shower together, and there is one more desperate, frenzied round.

They get dressed in silence, and he packs a bag. It's half clothes and half books. The last book he places inside is 'The Count of Monte Cristo'. It makes her smile.

And something deep inside her starts to hurt.

At the door he turns, and kisses her like his life depends on it. Her arms wrap around his neck, and she doesn't want to let go. He leans his forehead against hers.

“I have to go, love.” His voice is low and unsteady.

Hers is no better. “Text me your room number as soon as you have it. I'll be by later in the week with your temp ID. And an escape plan.”

Her hands slide down his neck, grab his shoulders tightly. He stutters an exhale. “Emma---”

“Shhhh,” she says, because she can't, this will break her. “I'll see you soon.”

“I'll see you soon, love,” he says. And then walks out the door.

 

 

There are garbled noises. She has trouble breathing.

_GoBack._

_ComeBack._

 

 

On Thursday she gets another text from Ruby.

_911._  
_Red._

 

Ten seconds later she's running again.

 

 

“I figured out why Regina wants him on the stand,” Ruby voice is brusque and terse and a far cry from her usual flippant manner. “It's not good.”

She walks Emma to a monitor, points at several open files, and waits while Emma scrolls her way through them and then looks up, puzzled. “This makes it look like---”

“Exactly.” Ruby cuts in. “Liam bought property in Killian's name. Bought a freaking _sailboat_ in Killian's name. Leased a harbor slip in Killian's name. Do you think Killian knows about any of this?”

Emma shakes her head, vigorously. “Definitely not. _Definitely_ not.”

Ruby scrutinizes her for a long moment. Emma feels like a bug under a microscope. “Are you sure?”

Emma nods again. “I am. One hundred percent.”

Ruby's glare turns thoughtful. “Because this sure looks like Killian was in on a very big scheme. All of these things were expensive, and they were paid in full at the completion of the sale. I traced the money, and there's a network of banks and transfers behind it. Tons of linked and free-floating assets. It was almost impossible to follow the trail. It's great work, almost as good as mine. And you know what I found at the end of the line?”

Emma can't speak. She is terrified.

“A UK bank account in Killian's name. Now are you still sure he doesn't know about this?” Emma nods. She feels like a boulder is pressing down on her chest. “In that case, his brother did everything to set him up and fuck him over. Short of shooting him in the head.”

The room is spinning. Emma has to sit down. Ruby hands her a glass of water. When she speaks again, her voice is unexpectedly gentle. “You see what this looks like, don't you?” Emma's mind has gone blank. She cannot think. “It looks like Killian was involved in all manner of illegal dealings. Money laundering being the very least of them.”

Ruby sits down across from Emma, reaches out and lifts up her chin. Forces Emma to look straight at her. “Killian is Regina's fall guy. In case she doesn't get Gold.”

Emma can't breathe, and she can't stop shaking. Everything is falling apart.

 

 

_Come back. Come back._  
_ComeBackComeBackComeBackComeBack._

 

 

Less than an hour later Emma is pounding on Killian's hotel room door.

He opens up, confusion turning into joy when he sees her, and then worry when he takes a look at her face.

Emma shoulders past him, slams the door closed, and then has to bend over and lean on the bed. She can't catch her breath.

Killian's hand settles on her back and his voice is calm and quiet when he speaks. “What's wrong, love? What's happened?”

Emma looks up at him; at his furrowed brow and the naked concern for her in his eyes, and she hates, hates having to do this to him. Because of what it will do _to_ him. Her breath is still coming in gasps, and his hand is slowly rubbing circles on her back, and Emma can't speak. She wordlessly hands him the printouts. Then she turns and sits down and forces herself to watch.

 

Killian takes a long time to read through it all. When he looks up, he has tears in his eyes. “That stupid git,” he chokes out, nearly growling. “That stupid, foolish, ignorant _git_.” He sinks down on a chair, still facing Emma. The first few drops make their way down his cheeks.

“Making our dreams come true,” he whispers. “Oh that bloody fucking _idiot_.”

Emma reaches for his hand. She'd had no doubts whatsoever that Killian knew nothing, but if she had had any, they would be gone now. Since his right hand is still holding the papers, she wraps both of hers around his blunted left wrist. Killian looks down slowly, like his arm is a foreign object, and then up again; resigned and so hopeless.

“I know you had nothing to do with this,” she says with conviction, her thumb rubbing his stump. “I _know_ that. Please do not have any doubts about that.” He blinks at her. More tears start to fall.

Emma forces herself to go on. “This is bad, Killian. Very, very, _very_ bad. You will go down for this. Regina will hang you.”

He hangs his head in utter defeat. “I know,” he whispers. “He probably thought he was doing the right thing. That he was taking care of me, like he always has.” He takes a sobbing breath. “I swear on all the gods out there that Liam did not do this to hurt me.”

She lifts up his chin, looks at him point blank. “I believe you.” Her voice is steady and sure and she hopes he can hear it.

 

His mouth comes down on hers with such force, they both topple backwards onto the bed. His kisses are frantic and fierce and desperately urgent; and they rip at their clothes, can't get them off fast enough, and when he enters her it is swift and hard. She claws at his back, tries to pull him in tighter, and their rhythm is bruising and savage, ferocious. She cannot get close enough, never get close enough. His hips snap to hers and her back arches off the mattress and the world explodes in a shower of sparks.

 

“Did I hurt you, love?”

They lie facing each other, their legs tangled together, and Killian is holding onto her for dear life.

She smiles at him, cupping his cheek. “You could never hurt me.”

He exhales a long breath, leans into her touch. His eyes flutter closed. His hand tightens around hers.

“So what now?” He whispers.

Emma gently runs her head through his hair, rubs the back of his neck. “You have to run. Now. Tonight.”

He opens his eyes. “I cannot do that. I owe Liam justice.”

Emma squeezes his shoulder. “He will get justice, I promised you that.” Killian's eyebrows rise almost to his hairline in question. “He _will_ get justice.” She repeats, with fervor. “Just not through your testimony.” He shakes his head, looks at her, puzzled.

“Ruby said that she'll find a way to hack into Gold's system, if it's the last thing she ever does. She won't stop until she brings him down.” She adds softly, “I promised you justice, and he _will_ get it.”

 

His eyes squeeze shut tightly; he looks like he's in pain. Then they slowly open and Emma's breath catches. They are full of pain and heartache and iron resolve. “Come with me.”

 

She didn't know a chest could hurt this much. It feels like her soul is splintering inside her.

“I can't,” she says, and it sounds like she's choking. “We have to stick to the plan. You have to run, and I'll meet you in three months. Otherwise this has all been for nothing.”

“I know,” he sighs. “I know all that. But I don't---” he swallows hard, tries again. “I don't want to be without you.”

There is nothing she can say that won't break her own heart.

So she leans forward and kisses him with everything she has.

 

 

An hour later he is showered and packed. He leaves most of his books on the bedside table, but he does pack the Count. Emma hands him his new driver's license.

“ _Wait and hope._ ”

He answers quietly. “ _Wait and hope_.”

Then he pulls something out of his jacket pocket and hands Emma one of the stacks of hundreds. “This is not payment,” he says, before she can protest. “This is for you, in case anything happens.” She looks down, at ten thousand dollars in her hand. “I can't stay, and I can't protect you. It's the only thing I can do for you, love.”

His eyes are brimming with tears again, and Emma just nods. He breathes a sigh of relief.

“So you know your way out?” Emma finally asks.

“Through the kitchen and out the loading dock,” he answers. Emma sends a quick thanks to the concept of public records. And that she'd had the foresight to get the blueprints for both the courthouse and the hotel. Then she gets up and walks over to him and he wraps her up in a bone-crushing hug. He lets go abruptly and goes to the door. With his hand on the doorknob he looks back at her, and Emma realizes she was wrong before.

Because this, _this_ , this is what will break her.

 

“Wait,” she chokes out, and runs towards him, and he turns around.

And then.

Glass shatters.

A sharp pain pierces Emma's side, knocks the air from her lungs, and she looks down. Red is spreading across her middle.

The pain explodes, forces her to her knees; and her breath comes in short, stuttering gasps. Killian sinks down beside her, white as a sheet. She can see a bullet hole, perfect and round, in the window.

The pain crawls up her spine as she slowly falls backwards. Killian's face looms above her, his eyes wide with shock.

“Emma,” he says, and there is panic in his voice. “Emma, what...?”

She concentrates on staying conscious, despite the buzzing in her ears. The pain seems to come from everywhere at once. She grits her teeth, marshals all remaining willpower. Looks him straight in the eye and grinds out, “ _run_.”

Killian looks like the word has slapped him. He's holding her hand and his fingers are trembling. His whole body shakes. “I can't leave you like this, love. I can't----”

“Killian,” she says, her voice eerily calm. “You have to go. _Now_.” He's not listening, and she has so little energy left. “If you don't go now, this is all for nothing.”

She swallows. It takes an exorbitant effort. “Please go,” she tries again. “Give me the phone. I can call 911. Just, please---” her voice cuts out for a moment, and she has to wait for it to come back. Killian is looking at her like his world is ending. He shakes his head, kisses her hand. “Don't make me do this. Don't make me leave you here.”

“Please,” she whispers. “Killian, _please_.”

He makes a sound of pure agony, gets up and then presses a receiver into her hand.

“Emma---” It's not her name. It's the sound of his heart breaking. She can her it clear through the ringing in her ears.

“Run.” It's all she can say, all she can tell him. The edges of her vision start to go grey.

He looks at her, and the pain in his eyes brings tears to her own.

“I love you,” he says. Like it's the meaning of life.

He puts his forehead to hers. “And three months from now, when I get to the Wonderland Inn, you be there.” He grips her hand, hard. “You _be there_.”

She closes her eyes and nods. “I will. I promise.”

She barely hears him walk out the door. With the last of her strength she holds up the receiver and dials the front desk.

 

 

Images jumble and stutter and dance before her eyes  
and that voice keeps saying Go Back, Come Back  
and Killian's hand stretches out, brushes her fingertips  
and something presses down on her chest, pushes hard, _ComeBack_

and suddenly a voice calls out, “we have a pulse!”

 

And electronic beeps follow her down to oblivion.

 

 

Emma wakes up, cannot place where she is. Someone feels her head, looks at her, nods.

Someone else with a clipboard says lots and lots of words.

She can only make sense of half of them.

Sunlight burns her eyes, and she has to close them.

 

 

When Emma wakes up again it is pitch dark outside. There is whirring and more beeping and a notion of machines around her. A weak neon bulb flickers at the head of her bed.

Her eyes are heavy and her mouth is dry, and there's a dull pounding pain in her lower right side.

A hand is holding her wrist. A hand with perfectly manicured red nails. And an insistent voice is calling her name.

Emma looks up. Ruby is standing next to her bed. She does not look amused.

“Whaaa.....?” Emma croaks. Her brain is wrapped in cotton.

 

Ruby hands her a cup of water. “I would like to state for the record that this is a horribly bad idea.”

Emma stares at her, trying to make sense of it all. “I told him as much, when he showed up on my doorstep. As if you could just fucking show up on my doorstep!” Emma is trying to catch up to what she is saying, but her thoughts are sluggish, like they're wading through syrup. “And he would not see reason He said he'd walk in here, if I didn't help him. Through the fucking front door. Of a fucking hospital! Of all the foolish, idiotic things to do, he was going to walk in here plain as day!”

Emma raises her eyebrows in question. She feels like she's been thrown into the middle of an argument which has been going on for a while. Without her.

Ruby relents and takes a deep breath. “He says he had to see you, so here's the deal. You get ten minutes. That's all.” Her brows furrow. “Do you hear me? That's _all_. When I come back in here to get him, he has to leave. Is that understood?”

Emma nods. She still has no idea what's going on, but acquiescence seems like a safe route to take. Ruby turns on her spiked heel and walks out and then--

 

Killian takes her hand.

 

Just like that, he's standing by her bedside and taking her hand and Emma can't help herself.

She squeezes his fingers and starts to cry.

He is here.

 

“I had to see you, love, I just had to. Please don't be mad.” His eyes are huge and so, so worried. Afraid.

He's the most beautiful thing Emma has ever seen.

“I know it's dangerous, and I know it's stupid,” he says, and gods, the way he is looking at her. Emma is not sure there is a person alive on this planet who deserves to be looked at that way. Certainly not her. But he's here, he's _here_ , and she has never been so glad to see anyone. In her entire miserable life.

He loves her.

It's so clear, from the look in his eyes to the way he's holding her hand to his heart.

He _loves_ her.

 

Emma slowly and painfully scoots to her left.

“What are you doing?” His brow furrows with concern.

“Moving over so you can lie. Down.” She runs out of breath in the space of that one sentence. Then she looks up at him and tries again. “Only have ten minutes. Want you next to me.”

Delight and anxiety war on his face. “Emma, can you--- will it hurt you?”

“No,” she says, and forces conviction into her scratchy voice. She pats the empty space at her side. “Here. With me. Please.”

Killian smiles and then carefully stretches his body alongside hers. Touching as much of her as is possible within the confines of a hospital bed. He presses a kiss to her cheek, takes a shuddering breath.

She reaches for his hand, folds her fingers between his, careful not to disturb the IV. “Be fine. Few weeks. Good as. New.”

His eyes are dark, and so, so soft. “Love, don't lie to make me feel better. Tell me the truth.”

“Got lucky. Bullet hit my. Pelvis. Missed most major organs.” She squeezes his hand, as hard as she can. It's not very hard, but he squeezes right back. “Be fine. Soon.”

Killian's eyes study her face for a moment, and then they slide shut. He leans forward and presses his lips to hers. It's fragile and relieved and urgent and tender, and Emma tries to hold on to him for as long as she can.

 

He finally pulls back, his eyes still dark. “I couldn't--- I kept seeing you down on that floor. There was so much blood--” He has to stop for a moment, gather himself. His eyes are wide now. And very shiny. “It was like an endless loop in my head. I thought I would go mad.” His breath comes fast, and uneven. “I could not have that be the last image of you. I just--- I--” He pulls his hand up and starts to wipe her cheek gently, and _gods_ – Emma has never felt so loved. He tries again. “I don't--- I can't----”

“Shhhhh,” Emma says, and cups his cheek. He's distraught, and there is no reason for it. “Don't worry. OK? I'm here. Fine.” She looks at him, wills him to see how much she means it. “Will see you. Soon. Stick to the. Plan.”

Killian's eyes bore into hers. “Do you promise?”

Emma nods. “Promise.”

She can feel his exhale down the length of her body. “Good,” he sighs. “You do keep your promises.”

Emma smiles. “Always.”

His hand threads into her hair and pulls her close and the kiss he gives her feels like a vow. “I love you, Emma Swan. So much.”

She opens her mouth and he cuts her off. “Don't say anything. I didn't say it to hear it back. I said it because it needed to be said. Without you bleeding on the floor.” And then he kisses her again, and Ruby comes back in, and then he is gone.

And Emma is left alone in her bed, with _iLoveYou_ still stuck at the tip of her tongue.

 

 

 

 

Three months later, Emma takes a train to Atlanta. And then a bus to Topeka. And another bus to Charleston. And on and on for days on end, the stops getting smaller, the bus routes more winding; until she is sure no one is on her tail. Then she rents a car for the last leg of the trip.

She arrives at last at the Wonderland Inn, in a nothing town in the middle of Ohio. She walks up to room #11, her heart in her throat.

Her hand shakes as she knocks.

 

And then the door opens, and he's standing there, scruffy and pale and much too thin; and she's never seen anyone so gorgeous, so wonderful.

Ever.

 

“Emma,” he says, and his voice, gods, his voice. Desperate and hopeful and broken and elated and so, so glad. How can one voice express so much emotion? All at once?

He pulls her close and wraps himself around her as if he's afraid she will disappear.

“I missed you so much. I'm so happy you're here.” When Emma looks up, his cheeks are wet.

“I'm here,” she whispers. “I'm here. Don't cry.”

“I'm not crying,” he answers, his voice unsteady. “I'm a man.”

Emma hiccups a laugh. “Yes you are, my love. A big strong man, with manly tears.”

Killian stills and stares at her in wonder.

“You just called me---” His voice drifts off.

Emma smiles. “Well, you know, if the shoe fits.”

“Say it again, love. Say it out loud.” His eyes are shining.

 

Emma takes a deep breath, looks him straight in the eye. “I love you. So much. You should know that by now.”

Killian doesn't answer. Just drops his head down on her shoulder and wraps his shaking arms more tightly around her and then sobs and sobs until she thinks he might break.

Emma lets him. And hugs him back as hard as she can.

 

Minutes pass until he finally pulls back and wipes his eyes with the cuff of his sweater.

“Are you staying?” He whispers, and it sounds so afraid. How can he still be so scared she will leave?

Emma cups his cheek, and his eyes flutter closed. “Of course I'm staying. You're stuck with me now.”

His smile is blinding.

And then he pulls her close, with excruciating slowness, and kisses her like she's never been kissed before.

Long and slow and deep and _possessive_. It's an electric pulse that runs down her spine and ignites every last nerve ending. It is warmth spreading through her entire body, spreading to places which never have been anything but cold. She never ever wants it to end. When he finally lets go with utmost reluctance, she actually moans from the loss of contact. He presses his forehead to hers, his hand in her hair.

“So what now?” He asks, and he still sounds unsure. Emma vows right then and there that she will rid him of this fear, no matter how long it takes. Of all the doubts that can creep into a life, she does not want to be one. Ever again.

She presses her lips to his, puts all her conviction into this kiss. Hopes it will be the first step to convince him.

“That's the fifty thousand dollar question,” she says. And then smiles at him, because she's happy, so happy. “How do you feel about becoming a Canadian citizen?”

 

 

 

 

 

They end up in St. John’s, on Newfoundland’s Avalon Peninsula. A small, beautiful city, right by the ocean, full of brightly colored houses. Theirs is vividly blue. 

 

Emma becomes an RNC deputy and spends her days at the quietest police station she could have possibly imagined. The irony of becoming a cop with the help of a fake identity is not lost on her, but she doesn't dwell on it. She is not lying. She is getting a fresh start. 

Killian eventually finds work at the harbor, repairing and servicing sailboats; a decision which involved a lot of discussion.

A. Lot.

But in the end Emma had to concede that it was incredibly unlikely Gold’s men were going to track them down to this corner of the world, and Killian needs to be around water and boats in order to truly be happy. And that’s what ultimately cinched it.

Because she wants him to be happy. That’s all she wants.

 

A year in, Gold gets shot resisting arrest. It's on the news for weeks, the entire dismantling of his organization; down to the last gory detail, for all the world to see.

 

 

And a beautifully sunny and very cold spring morning two years after that finds them at Cape Spear, a little way from the lighthouse. Killian stands at the edge of a bluff, looking out across the jagged rocks and the slate grey sea and the eternal waves crashing into the shore. The wind whips his hair and tugs at his sweater, and the air smells of salt. He feels free. And light. And  something so much bigger than happy. 

 

He turns and starts to walk back up the slope towards Emma, sitting in a folding chair. She is bundled into heavy clothes and a blanket, but neither of them can disguise the enormous swell of her belly. He plunks down into the folding chair next to her, rubs his hand across her swollen abdomen and gives her a kiss.

“Feeling alright, love?”

“Considering the fact that you had to put _twins_ inside of me and I’m bigger than a house, I’m uncomfortable, thank you.” She says it without rancor and tries to frown, but a smile escapes her. “I’m good,” she adds. “I love being here.”

Then she gasps and rubs a spot along her side. 

“Kick?” He asks, smiling.

“Big kick.” She says. “Definitely the boy.”

“How incredibly old-fashioned of you. It could have been your daughter.”

“Nah,” Emma smirks. “She kicks _much_ harder than your son. And usually hits my bladder.”

 

Killian looks at Emma’s hands, still lazily rubbing her belly, and thinks his heart may leap from his chest with pure contentment. There are days when he has to hold on to her simply to reassure himself that all of this is real.

This is such a day.

But Emma’s hand slides up the back of his neck and pulls his lips to hers before he can even reach for her.

Damn that woman for knowing him so well.

 

“Come here,” he says, when they pull apart. He pats his lap.

“That chair is not going to hold us both.” Emma smirks. “This one’s barely holding me.”

“Chief Johnson sat in one of these for the RNC fundraiser. He must weigh almost 300 pounds.”

Yes, Emma’s Chief of Police is a Big. Guy. All muscle, as he is fond of saying. Emma gives Killian a pointed look and tries to lever herself up. Twice. Without success. 

Then she rolls her eyes. “It appears I need some help.”

He laughs, gets up and wraps his arms around her. “Up you go---ooof.”

“Say one word about how heavy I am and you _will_ regret it,” Emma growls as she tries to hold her balance. “Especially since this is all your fault.”

“Don't think I don't know that you are doing all the work here. You're incredible, you know.” And then Killian looks at her with so much love that she can't keep scolding him. She kisses him instead.

 

It takes them some very long, very awkward moments to get settled back in one chair. It creaks loudly as Emma lowers herself on Killian's lap.

“If this chair breaks down, just leave me here,” she says. 

“That'll be a long five weeks, love.”

“I don't care. I am never getting up again.”

She leans against his chest, and Killian rubs her belly slowly. “Alright now, love?” He asks, his voice soft.

“Better than alright,” she answers honestly. “Better than I ever thought I would be.”

He presses a kiss to the top of her head. “I know the feeling.”

Emma looks up at him, and his expression is open and happy. “You're going to spoil them rotten, aren't you?”

Killian smiles Emma's favorite smile. Unguarded and loving and just for her.

“All three of you, love,” he whispers. “All three of you, for the rest of my life.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was going to be another short chapter, and then suddenly ten thousand words later-- i'm DONE.  
> If anyone needs me, i'll be over here, doing an epic *happy dance*.  
> And trying to figure out how to write a freaking ONESHOT.
> 
>  
> 
> Oh, and if anyone cares, the 'Count of Monte Cristo' quote is from the end of the book, and the whole thing goes like this:
> 
> "There is neither happiness nor unhappiness in the world, there is only the comparison of one state with another. Only a man who has felt ultimate despair is capable of feeling ultimate bliss. It is necessary to have wished for death in order to know how good it is to live.  
> Live, then, and be happy, beloved children of my heart, and never forget that until the day God deigns to reveal the future to man, the sum of all human wisdom shall be contained in these two words: 'Wait and hope'."

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was going to be a oneshot. Short, self-contained, just one small idea from beginning to end.  
> And then THIS happened, and now i'm suddenly back in another big, convoluted story.  
> i think i need help.  
> i also think if i don't start posting, i might never get this done. So.... chapters it is.


End file.
